Silent Hill 4 Chaptered
by LabyrinthDweller
Summary: Novelization in third person of the fourth Silent Hill game. Rated M for general Silent Hill happenings. Reviews greatly appreciated, but not needed.
1. Chapter 1

_**EDIT 12/28/10 - **Or maybe it's 12/29 at this point, because it's kind of after midnight. Anyways. Edited this chapter - This is most likely the final draft. Minor edits to grammar and/or spelling may be made, but as far as word choice, story flow, and structure, this is the final edit._

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**Chapter 1**

_What's with this room?_

An apartment covered in what appeared to be blood and rust greeted him as he woke up. The air was heavy and bleak, reinforcing his procrastination in getting up. He had to eventually though, so he groaned and rolled over, forcing his aching limbs to stand.

He quickly observed the damage done to his room. When he had fallen asleep it was fine, but now it was…terrible. Just in his bedroom his red typewriter was missing, replaced by cobwebbed notebooks and disturbing graphic pictures.

_This room…is this really my room?_

A chilled bewilderment ran down his spine as he moved into the living room. His false hope shattered when the room turned out to be the same as if not worse than the horrific bedroom. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as he passed the static blaring on the TV.

_What's this…? I thought I had a turn table here…_

His heart rate increased as he walked around the room. Observing everything didn't help it as he found that it was all new or replaced, rusted and bloody on top of that. Even the walls that were dripping with moldy fluids were decorated with odd paintings.

There was one framed in the corner, a picture of an unfamiliar man; slightly messy and scruffy but still somewhat refined. Aside from that he looked mostly uninteresting and gray. At least, compared to the picture to the left of it.

Where they were in the picture was unidentifiable, but it was clearly an unfriendly realm. He shivered and wished he could step back when he saw twenty-one bodies strewn about in a crazy but definite pattern, within pools of their own blood. The gore and condition of their bodies was a crime that could only be committed by a fellow man, making him retch. Passing the picture quickly only led him to freeze again.

_Creepy…it looks like a face._

It resembled one so much that he nearly cried out and fell backwards. He told himself it was just the bizarre rust on the wall and nothing else. Though he relaxed when he realized that the folds and wrinkles in the wallpaper only _looked_ like a face, he began to worry just a little bit more when his head began to burn with pain the longer he squinted at it. He prodded his temples gingerly with the pads of his fingers and shuffled into the compact kitchen.

A horrible, rotten smell infiltrated his nostrils, causing him to retch again. Tears sprung from his eyes, but he forced himself to keep them open to navigate his way around the counter. The stench was wafting directly from the fridge. He approached it, the smell worsening. It was like burning leather, rotting flesh, and gagging bile snaking its way about, deteriorating the atmosphere to its toxic taste. Too afraid to open it up, he stumbled into the front hallway of his (or what used to be his) apartment.

In a stupor, he just stood and stared as things began to form on the far wall. Cracks, small at first but rapidly growing before his eyes. Emerging and stretching from the plaster, it all seemed to center around the portrait of the twenty-one bodies. They deepened and spread, imitating the maw of a formless monster. His confusion turned to panic as the cracks spanned across the entire side of the room, the maw of the beast at its greatest size.

The panic soon morphed into a raw terror when oily spots began to drip from the wall out of nothing, carelessly painted into this realm. Before his very eyes fingers wriggled jointlessly away from the oily blackness, clawing and tearing at the wall. A sick groaning emitted from the hole as the strained hands pushed its body forward, beginning with a pasty head, thinly spread with sparse threads of hair. It wasn't mind-shattering until the face emerged, bulging, twitching, mouth yawning open in an infinite moan and eyes glowing yellow with hatred. Molten and burning, they were fixated on him.

He tried to run, but asudden knife tore through his mind, searing through his brain and causing his knees to buckle underneath him. Watching him collapse, the haunted thing forced its tainted body into the ruined, rusty threshold. The pain in his head worsened until he swore his skull was slowly shattering, flaking away piece by piece.

The thing fell to the floor with an unnatural thud. Part of the ooze from the wall still followed the humanoid, acting as multiple umbilical tendrils until it broke away and began to drag itself across his floor, reaching, twitching, moaning for his flesh, his soul, his hope.

As if he was wearing cement clothes he remained completely paralyzed as the thing crept closer, seeping through the counter chairs as if they were merely air. He only moved when the pain in his head made him spasm, the…_ghost_ only inches away.

The pain in his head was blazing hot, but the heat was a blessing to him when the ghost's icy fingertips brushed against him, searching for a weakness in his skin. Dry ice entered his blood as the ghost's arm plunged into his heart, feeding off of his life.

–

Henry Townshend awoke in his pale, stuffy bedroom, eyes staring up at the rotating fan. His heart rate was racing to rival a horse derby and he was clawing at his comforter frantically, heels digging into the foot of the bed. They had grown more intense. They had grown _too_ intense.

Nightmares that couldn't just be dreams.

He sat up, body filled with sand and spine creaking in protest. The past five days had been worse than Hell for him, and the nightmares weren't included in that. Groaning he swung his feet over the side of the bed, gathering up enough courage to lift up his head to stare at the closet. He used to always wake up to stare at the window, but the outside that the windows led to now taunted him, and began to avoid them.

"Oh man…what a dream…," he murmured to himself, the only resident in the empty room.

Empty was the perfect way to describe his apartment home. The apartment was everything but empty, but to Henry it was the emptiest, saddest place in the world. It had gotten so sad that it began to mock him. He had been locked here for five days with no possible means of escape. Such tolls on his sanity twisted everything so that all the items here began to fade from his mind, and only himself was trapped there in his room's separate little dimension, but sometimes even he was gone. The place was empty to him and to every other tenant in the building because nobody _cared_ if it was empty or not. Five days wasn't enough to convince the other residents that his room wasn't empty. His incessant screaming and pounding brought nothing, his attempts to break out were fruitless, so it boiled down to waiting.

Henry could wait for eternity though and no one would notice. He never really talked to any of the other people save for the common hallway small talk. Even the landlord wouldn't notice he's missing until he didn't pay the rent, and how long would _that_ take? And it's not like that disappearing from view for a while would raise suspicion. People knew he didn't talk much, but they also knew it was just because he was shy and reserved. The only suspicious thing Henry could think of him doing was him running around with his thick batter-proof suitcase that protected his precious camera and equipment. To not see his face for a while was normal, so it could be a long, long time before Henry could even be filed as a missing person. He was forgettable. For better or for worse, he was locked in here.

He couldn't see how it would be for better. Henry was losing sanity fast. He had always been a lonely, introverted child, but always having the option of social contact was more comfort than he knew he had. It was so bad that his parents wouldn't notice his situation until a holiday rolled around. Henry was stuck.

He stood up, picking up the phone to dial a number. In the beginning he had been specific in the numbers he called, but now he just mashed at the buttons with a number that sounded realistic, hoping to get a promising response. He didn't even care if he accidentally dialed a phone sex line; it was at least proof that he could contact someone or something about his predicament. (It took a lot for Henry to not care about dialing that sort of wrong number. It had happened to him once and his face didn't return to its normal color for a week. His next door neighbor even asked him if he was okay, which in truth scared him.)

Henry set the receiver back down as the expected nothing blared back at him. No signal, no dial tone, only soft static he had to strain to hear. Just as he thought. He turned and began to walk out of his when he thought his ears would burst from that exact phone ringing its heart out.

Stopping with a short jolt, Henry turned on his heel and stared at the phone, wondering if it would keep ringing. When it did he picked it up, sitting on the bed for the lack of support his legs were giving him.

"Hello…?" he said a little sheepishly. Who the hell…?

A woman with a deep voice spoke, ignoring his greeting and replying with words that sent a confused shiver down Henry's neck, "Help…me…,"

The phone jumped to a gurgling static before throwing a dial tone in his ear. Bewildered, Henry picked up the receiver as if it would fix the issue.

"What…?" he said into the phone, wondering if the woman would come back. His mind started to work and he glanced down at the receiver gripped in his hand, noticing something crucial and ugly as it moved without resistance.

"The…cord's cut…!" he gasped. Setting the phone down quickly he moved away from it as if it was plagued and left the room. He desperately hoped that the rest of the day would go without any other hinderance. A quick glance in the refrigerator's direction ruined his wish though when his stomach growled. White wine and chocolate milk was all that remained for him to consume.

The wine he was reserving for some special occasion, such as a birthday or a holiday. The milk was the last of a chocolate and white milk six-pack called a 'spotted cow.' He had been saving it for last if it had to come to a bitter end or something, even though it was nearing its expiration date. Milk was something of a guilty pleasure of Henry's, and though the chocolate milk often was a little too sweet for him he relished in the thought of its taste on his tongue.

Even still he cursed the contents of the fridge, turning to his front door. Saying that he was locked in was a deep understatement. Henry stared at the once operating slab of wood that stood between him and freedom. It was hard to see the door through the thicket of crossing chains and locks that barred his one escape route. The chains looked heavy and rough, the locks were even more so. A household wire cutter would not stand against these. Someone or something really wanted to keep him tucked inside this cage, so much so that they locked him from the _inside out_. Henry stared at the door created from the mind of Salvador Dali, hypnotized with a distant, buried resentment.

In the blank space just below the peephole red letters began to bleed and stain the white paint, seeping into the wood in the form of a blatant message. He had to shake his head to make sure he wasn't seeing things.

_Don't go out!_

_-Walter_

Henry crept closer, hesitating. Cautious, he approached the door with care, barely skimming the chains as if they could burn him. He bent down, examining the many links to assure himself for the hundredth thousandth time that they were real.

"What the hell?"

His fingers twitched, just about to touch the chains when the sound of shattering glass rang just on the other side of the door. Henry inhaled sharply and jumped before straightening up to look through the peephole.

Eileen Galvin, his young neighbor, was crouched over outside his door. A paper bag nearly stuffed with groceries was pressed to her side by her arm, carefully held upright as she picked up fallen items. In an act of clumsiness she had dropped them on her way to room 303 next to him. She placed the last item into the bag on top of the others and stood up, staring at his door.

"Oh man…," she groaned, turning away to enter her apartment, "I hope my luck changes before the party…,"

She _tsked_ at herself in exasperation and moved out of sight. Henry had tried pounding and screaming before, and he knew it was to no avail. That never stopped him from trying whenever somebody wandered close, but he did not even attempt the smallest peep for help now. The reason why was because something else caught his eye and breath.

Bloody handprints were smeared in an obscenely compulsive order on the wall across from his room. Henry gaped as he stared, counting fifteen prints in all. Shuddering, he backed away from the peephole, nearly tripping on his incompetent heels. As if things weren't already turning him in the direction of insanity enough—if this day kept prodding at his head the way it was he'd be admitted to a straight jacket in no time.

Overwhelmed, he grabbed the door handle of his side closet to balance himself should he trip and fall over. His eyes wandered from the peephole, wanting to look anywhere but there until he spotted a slip of paper underneath the door.

_Did Eileen drop this?_ he wondered as he bent down to pick it up. Immediately seeing that the writing was sloppy and childish on a crumpled colored note card, he concluded that it was not. The conclusion did nothing for his nerves. Henry did not know or see any sign that Eileen had a child or a much younger sibling, and this note had come from a small kid just entering the first grade. The note was soft, suggesting that it was overly handled, and wrinkled as if it was used as a handkerchief for tears. Henry felt some sort of sympathy for whoever wrote this, but his sympathy was overtaken with confusion as he deciphered the messy handwriting.

_Mom,_

_Why doesn't u wake up?_

Henry carefully folded the crumpled note and slipped it into his pocket for lack of a better place to put it at the moment. For some reason he felt as though throwing the note away would be treading on the child's soul. Perhaps it wasn't something to believe if one was right in the head, but there was something written in the words of the note that seemed to foreshadow Henry's footsteps. Turning from the door, he spotted another note across the room, shoved unceremoniously between the bookshelf and the wall.

Curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he cared not what sort of trouble he got himself into at this point—as long as it was trouble that led him away from anything but this room. Henry gently eased ancient book pages from behind the shelf. They practically dissolved at his touch, causing him to take extra care as he laid them on the coffee table so that the oils of his fingertips wouldn't further corrode the old text.

_Through the Ritual of the Holy Assumption, he built a world. It exists in a space separate from the world of our Lord. More accurately, it is within, yet without the Lord's world. Unlike the world of our Lord, it is a world in extreme flux. Unexpected doors or walls, moving floors, odd creatures, and world only he can control…Anyone swallowed up by that world will live there for eternity, undying. They will haunt that realm as a spirit. How can our Lord forgive such an abomination…?_

He tried to understand the book's warnings as best he could. It was the first thing he had done since the five days had started. There were books everywhere in his apartment, yes, but he never found the motivation to read any of them or do anything else. Trying to decipher and read as much as he could to keep the boredom away with unfamiliar prophecies, he gently brushed the dust away from the acid-ridden paper. The next paragraph was too damaged to read properly, so he skipped to the final part where he could continue.

…_it is important to travel lightly in that world. He who carries too heavy a burden will regret it…_

Brain wracked with the sudden stimulation and worthless but well-kept knowledge, Henry left the book scrap on the small table. The first logical thought that ran through his head was to find a place to keep the two notes he had received. If he was going to keep getting such things he would need to record it, even though he felt as if the notes were mocking him in his very face.

A rather large chest that doubled as an uncomfortable seat was his first instinctive place to look, but as the chest creaked open he frowned. It was deep and woody, not a good place for storing papers—especially deteriorating texts of older days. A brown, spotted spider stared back at him in curiosity as he scowled at himself. He must've been strained to his limit if he resorted to this first. Other fragments similar to the book pages would be completely ruined if left in here. The spider shifted itself as he shut the chest, never noticing the comfortable creature.

Henry suddenly remembered the scrapbook he scarcely used, and was just about to stand up to retrieve it when something exploded.

It was a sound he'd expect to hear when a superhero punches through a wall. Nothing shook but the blast was loud enough to be heard from the landlord's room on the first floor. There was the rocky sound of debris tumbling to a hard floor, then a spooked silence that echoed around—daring noise to be made.

Henry stared in fear in the direction of the bathroom where the noise had originated. He had been ruthlessly startled out of his skin, first by the sudden noise and second by the fact that he hadn't looked there when he had gotten up. Somebody could have been…

Survival instincts thrived in his nerves, and his usual avoidance of violence no longer mattered. He tensed, racing to think of a reachable, adequate weapon. The closest one was in the fridge, lying next to a bottle of chocolate milk.

Moving as stealthily as he could Henry opened the fridge, keeping his wary eyes toward his bathroom. He fumbled for the neck of the wine bottle, hands slipping and causing it to drop. His chest froze though his hand had been quick to catch the bottle before it shattered. To Henry it seemed as though he had just set off a set of firecrackers and it made him cringe. If the intruder heard it, what would they do?

Nothing stirred in the bathroom, allowing Henry's confidence to carefully rebuild, though it was nothing more than a simple jenga tower in the first place. He was shaking as he held the wine bottle, standing outside the door to the bathroom. He stood there for some time, trying to get himself to stop trembling. After several moments where nothing happened, Henry reached out and clutched the door knob. Taking a deep breath he pushed the door open as forcefully as he could, raising the wine bottle over his head in preparation to swing it.

The bathroom was deserted, but what Henry saw instead stopped him dead in his tracks. There, in the once drearily plain bathroom wall, was a dark, ominous hole. It was a little wider than Henry's shoulders and hung precariously between his sink and toilet just below chest level.

He lowered the wine bottle, keeping his firm grip on the neck as he ventured forward into the new, alien room. Someone, or some_thing_ had to have done this, and whatever it was couldn't have gone very far. His eyes flicked to the bathtub, expecting a face. Sniffing at himself dismissively, Henry turned away. Of course no one would be in the bathtub. Instead, they would (or should) logically be in the hole. The hole, where he could not see the end of the tunnel that it had crafted.

Henry approached it cautiously, wanting to look but afraid of the unknown.

"What the hell?"

He reached his hands forward to peek inside, hearing breathy, vaguely human noises from within.

"S-Somebody in there?" he called with a stutter, jerking backward. Standing up straight, a thought crossed his mind. Though the intruder may still be in there and dangerous he was willing to take the risk for his freedom.

"I wonder if I can get out this way…?"

Henry set the wine bottle down for a moment, looking into the hole. A steel pipe hung down from the top. It was loose enough that he could pull on it and possibly wrench it free. Gripping it with both hands, he grimaced as he tugged. After three sharp pulls the pipe broke away with a puff of dust, the breaking point hissing with disturbed gas that died down shortly afterwards. The corroded steel felt rough and unnatural in his soft hands, and Henry thought about dropping it and leaving it behind it felt so unnatural and harmful in his grasp. Just as he set it next to the wine bottle the thought of combat occurred to him.

It seemed like a silly thought at first, climbing through a hole in the bathroom to face enemies. True, the intruder could still be on the other side, but even then Henry was sure that the wine bottle would be fine and there would be no need for anything as serious as a steel pipe. But the hole had a sinister air about it. There were noises that bled and twisted out from the depths of the hole, thick, shrill, unidentifiable, soulless. Sin radiated from the depths of the blackness. It drew him inwards, tried to trick him into crawling into the hole unarmed and unprepared. Something about the yawning vastness of the small hole scratched at the insides of Henry's eyes. There was something _not right_ about this. Beyond the fact that it was a bizarre happenstance that had no place in reality, there was something _not right_ about this. This was a hole that Alice wouldn't return from should she jump down it.

Instead of leaving the pipe, Henry reached down and picked up the bottle to keep along with the pipe. It was clumsy and must've looked ridiculous, but he had a weapon in both hands now. As long as he felt somewhat safe, he could enter and face whatever sort of surprise was waiting for him. He drew in a long, somewhat steady breath and climbed into the hole.

Though he knew he was manually scraping through the craggy cement on his hands and knees, he still felt like he was being sucked in by a greater, greedy force. As he advanced through the hole his vision blurred and a blinding light burned the rest of it as he drew closer. Just before the light overwhelmed him Henry hesitated. The greedy force that seeped from the walls were pulling as hard as ever, and it had become clear that the light at the end of this tunnel was not one of those cliché ones where the protagonist breaks free of his confinement into sunlight at the end of the movie. No. This light burned coldly.

Henry sucked in a breath, wondered if he should turn around, then was pulled maliciously into the world of cold light.


	2. Chapter 2

_**EDIT 12/30/10: **Final cut/edit for chapter 2. As with chapter 1, minor edits to grammar and spelling may be made, but as far as this goes this is the final cut._

_Threw out the old psychology I wrote for Henry and replaced it with better psychology. Came out more carnal, more _human_ and less "I want Henry to be this way" instead of taking what he really would be in my opinion. This means that, until the final edits come for most of the future chapters (3-16ish) Henry may play out a little weirdly because I switched out his psychology and some of his backstory. This will hopefully be remedied by the time I get to editing those chapters which won't be for a while because I'm damn sick of editing at the moment. Huzzah!  
_

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**Chapter 2**

He must've blacked out, though he didn't remember it. Sitting upright in a slouched position, Henry woke to the sound of a mechanical whirring. He was staring at his feet, blinking to adjust to the dim light. As soon as he realized that he was moving and not of his own accord Henry whipped his head up, nearly hitting it on an overhead pipe.

A huge escalator shifting downwards was the answer to his movement, but only with more questions. Bringing his hands together on his knees, Henry looked behind him to find a dead end instead of what should've been the top and beginning of the escalator. He glanced to his left and right at the dark cement walls, only able to mutter one thing.

"What the hell?"

The scenery was not something a freelance photographer like Henry would call scenery. Maybe if he was an urban or perhaps a horror photographer he'd think differently, but the bland gray walls with mold dripping from the cracks and edges amidst hundreds of miles of rusting pipes with one lonely flickering light bulb had no personal effect on Henry, aside from disturbing him. A lot. Coming to this place from his apartment bathroom had much to do with it, he supposed. It was also a fact of his unfamiliarity with urban areas. He had grown up in a suburb that wasn't too far away from a bustling city, but the summers he spent at his aunt's house in the country had him grow fond of more natural landscapes and settings—whether they had to do with forests or small town charm. Thinking about what was his comfort zone within the lens only made matters worse for him as the escalator guided him further downwards.

The air was dry and musty, making Henry sneeze softly as he neared the end of the bizarre escalator. Rubbing his nose to rid himself of the sensation, Henry stood up in a long hallway of forgotten gray walls and endless industrial pipes. He clenched the weapons in his hands tighter as he walked forward, a spooky feeling of déjà vu laden in his mind. He knew this place but forgot how. If he thought hard enough though—

A woman stood at the end of the hallway.

Henry's chest jumped. He rubbed his eyes, assuring himself that this was not an illusion. She was there, she was real, and she was human. The first one he'd seen in days that he could interact with. A feeling of déjà vu was brought along with her too—as if he'd seen her before when he was staring aimlessly out of his impenetrable window. Shrugging the feeling off, he placed his weapons on the floor before approaching her. Forcing himself to walk at a normal pace he tried to remain casual in his footsteps and mannerism.

About fifteen paces away the woman turned her head towards him, bronze-skinned with dark hair pulled back into a stylish ponytail that let curls of her hair border her smooth face. Her shirt was tight and thin, a dusty rose color that was almost tissue paper. As if being able to see her lacy bra wasn't enough, her implants puffed out her breasts until it was a surprise that the nipples weren't slipping out. At the waist of her skimpy skirt the strings of her thong climbed up her hips to hug her bare midriff.

_Ah…she's…a prostitute._ Henry observed dryly, trying not to look too awkward upon seeing her. He forced himself to remain benevolent in his judgment, telling himself that she was still a person no matter the lifestyle she held. Cocking his head slightly, he leaned up against the wall, as if it helped in trying to literally see her from a different perspective. Maybe if he looked at her this way she isn't a prostitute. Maybe she _wasn't_ a prostitute, just a young woman who dressed too sleazy for her own good. It was far-fetched, but Henry was ready to believe it if need be. Hell, he would even go so far as to say that he was ready to believe anything.

"Who are you?" she cooed, accenting the word _you_. Turning the rest of her body around, she popped out her hip to rest a hand on it. Deftly, she gently nibbled on the fingers of the other one, as if analyzing him, "What's your name?"

Henry stared at her from the wall. It finally occurred to him that he now had to rely on his dusty communication skills—skills that were never golden to begin with. Still, he pushed away from the wall.

"Henry. And you?" He tried to sound friendly and innocent, which only invited the woman to leap at him with her cat-like voice.

Presumably Hispanic from her small accent, the woman raised her hands up and chuckled, a faint smirk on her lips, "This is _my_ dream, and you don't even know my name?" The smirk widened, broadly showing that it was clearly at home on this cat-woman's face. "It's Cynthia."

Confused again, Henry shook his head in response to her answer. What she had claimed caused him some disbelief and he gave her a strange look.

"Your…dream?" he asked, struggling to keep his eyes upward.

Cynthia laughed again, giving the impression that she thought he was both stupid and enthralling. It was obvious that she knew too well that he was struggling to remain a gentleman. Her voice droned pleasurably, laced with a stark cunning undertone. Henry hoped she didn't hear his stomach growl.

"That's right, this is _just_ a dream," she explained, the smirk melting around her tongue, "And a really terrible one too. I hope I wake up soon." She looked at him, lips curling back to reveal teeth.

Raising a hand to give a general gesture of the underground area, Henry gave another question, "So you think this is just a dream, huh?"

"Well if it's not a dream, what is it?" Laughter seeped into Cynthia's eyes, challenging him. Henry paused after she said this, pondering. Could it be a dream? It certainly was surreal enough to be one, that was for sure. He turned away from Cynthia to stare at the far off escalator that offered no beginning. Even though he felt that everything was odd and confusing, it did not feel like a dream. His body and limbs were working perfectly and did not feel weighted down from his subconscious, his eyesight normal and unhindered by words and letters. Things were too clear and realistically perfect. His hand came up to his face to help him think but the only thing it revealed to him was that he needed to shave.

"Anyway, I want to get out of here but I can't find the exit…," Cynthia continued in the background. Henry didn't register what she was saying, too deep in thought to be easily interrupted by conversation.

"_Saaay_…," Cynthia purred, turning his body around, "Will you help me find it?"

Henry's jaw gaped open. She was suddenly explicitly close to him, and sensually worming closer. Hovering just over his body her hands scanned down his torso, gently resting at his pants' waistline for a mere fraction of a second, taunting him, before reaching back up around his neck. Henry gulped and shivered. No matter how hard he tried she was awakening a hidden sex drive in his blood. It wasn't totally his fault, he knew; he had been locked away without any contact for so long that sudden contact with a very catty woman would bring forth a wave of hormones. Henry just didn't expect that he would react so severely. His hand twitched as her nails traced his collarbone. Glancing downward, Henry fought back half of a groan and half of a moan as her cleavage invited his primal instincts. Her sparkling necklace that hung down between her nicely puffed breasts was of no help to that as her chest swelled with each knowing little breath.

"I'm…kind of scared all alone," she teased. Henry felt himself begin to sweat. It took every ounce of power he had to keep his hot blood from rushing down between his legs. Her finger tapped his jaw as her lips pursed.

"I'll do a…'special favor' for you later," she promised.

Henry didn't even realize his hand had reached out to grasp her waist until she twirled away from him, chuckling at her cleverness. She walked away, swinging her hips and fiddling with her hair.

"It's just a dream so I might as well have some _fun_," she taunted.

Henry inwardly moaned.

She was a prostitute.

_Professional_ prostitute.

He turned away from her, partially to regain his composure to help calm his hyperactive hormones, and partially to retrieve the steel pipe and wine bottle. Cynthia watched from afar much to his overwhelming gratefulness.

Henry was a virgin. An older virgin to be sure, but a virgin nonetheless. He was just too damn shy, and his values reached to fall in love and marry a woman before having sex with them. As a child he wasn't exposed to much of what love between two people and a family was. His parents were distant to both each other and him. They bickered every now and then, but the staple of their relationship was the dull, accepted ignorance of each others' presence. Though he had seen and read plenty stories where the characters fall for one another and ride off into the sunset, he had had no actual interaction or understanding of such things. Deep down he was an altruist, he liked to help people if they asked for it, and he had had some girlfriends in the past, but it was nothing compared to what he knew characters on the movie screen felt when presented towards one another. He himself had never felt an emotion or a feeling strong enough to imitate such devotion or even a spark of infatuation that would lead to just a night of intimacy.

Now that he was here stuck with a woman well-experienced in such culture for a companion and the only person he'd talked to in days, Henry was beginning to question everything that had never surfaced before that he was starting to feel now. Was it because he was a simple human being? Would this woman finally lead him to the part of life he had not had the luxury to experience? Could he even take her through this strange place successfully so that could one day happen? After all, he didn't interpret this as any place for intimacies to happen—and after all, if there were darker secrets to this area, he didn't believe he could lead her through them. Still he bit his lip and put his feet forward. She had entrusted him to lead her through this maze of gray industry.

So he was going to do it, buried lust or not.

Cynthia let him lead her, seeing as he had the weapons to defend them if need be. The place they were in was completely deserted, but still had the feeling that there was something infesting the hallways and atmosphere. Such a vague, malevolent feeling tensed Henry's muscles in preparation for anything unfriendly that wished to cross their path. The haunting sense of déjà vu finally faded away as he stared at the peeling posters and advertisements on the concrete walls.

They were in the subway station for South Ashfield, situated just outside of his apartment. Recognizing the place didn't allow Henry to ease up on his suspicions though. The subway got a fair amount of bad reputations simply for being what it was, and his unfamiliarity with the station did nothing to calm him.

It wasn't long since they started walking when they passed the washrooms. From behind him Henry heard Cynthia stumble and stop, calling out in a gurgled voice.

"Wait a minute…," she mumbled. Henry turned around to see her bent over, clutching her stomach as though it could burst. She let out a few grunts as if she was struggling to hold something back, hand moving to cover her mouth as her eyes widened.

"I think I'm gonna puke—!" she sputtered. Henry took a few steps toward her to see if there was anything possible he could do to help, but she stumbled forward awkwardly in her high heels, pushing the door open to the women's room before he could reach her. Out of natural instinct Henry was just about to follow before he stopped himself and backed off.

_That was __sudden_…he thought as he stared at the swinging door. Sighing he walked to the opposite wall, leaning his back against it. Setting the weapons down against the concrete, he crossed his arms in an effort to find some comfort while he waited.

She had been in the restroom for a while, but Henry let it go for a couple of reasons. She seemed to be the type that if she was pretty sick (and it seemed like she was) that when she would eventually emerge from the washroom that she would want to appear as if nothing had happened that would ruin her image. Another reason that came to mind was much more explicit, but for the sake of keeping his mind on the first and foremost task, he kept himself from dwelling on those thoughts.

Instead, he passed the time by thinking about the causes and events that had led for him to be caught in this place. There wasn't much to think about, so he dozed until a door creaked as it slowly opened. He shifted and looked up, expecting to see Cynthia saunter out.

What he saw was the men's door opening to reveal nothing but darkness. Before his mind could thaw from the confusion the door slammed open with an explosive roar as a lump of foul flesh catapulted from within to slide to a rest at his feet. Henry nearly screamed as it growled, wracked with spasms before it fell silent. A pool of blood and bile grew underneath its body from multiple festering wounds. It resembled a dog with rotting, patchy skin. The eyes on it were almost squinted shut, and its lips were pulled back from underneath a hoggish nose to reveal massive puffy gums and four sharp fangs. The most notable feature about the dog was its extremely long bright red tongue that was covered in yellow saliva. It lay there dead in front of Henry's shoes, the rotting flesh reminiscent of his recurring nightmare.

To make matters worse, it wasn't alone. Two more dogs of Doberman size slunk out of the men's restroom, hog noses sniffing until they found their dead comrade. Henry watched in unhindered, silent awe until their heads reared backwards with an unnatural screech before they plunged their tongues into the corpse's flesh. A horrible suction noise filled Henry's ears as their tongues, acting like straws, drew the meat and blood from the dead dog.

Henry looked on in disbelief and shock. Raising his head to the bright white light above him, he asked the ceiling light why this was happening to him over and over and over again. He had no sooner brought his head down when one of the dogs had noticed his trembling presence and disconnected its tongue from the corpse, its squinted eyes fixed on him. It put a paw forward and crouched, ready to pounce as yellow saliva pooled within the confines of its lips.

Henry froze. The canine's empty gaze pierced him. Something told him that the dog could not see Henry, but with the nose that it had that was inhaling sharply at the discovery he would bet his wavering salary that the dog could smell him from miles away. They stared each other down until the dog coiled its legs underneath itself and lunged.

This time Henry did scream, swinging the wine bottle blindly in front of him, managing to whack the dog in the side of the head. Adrenaline pumped through Henry's muscles, washing his mind with urges to survive what could be his peril. The bottle had cracked, small amounts of wine trickling past the green glass and dropping to the ground. The dog remained on its feet even though it was knocked to the side. It shook its head, saliva and flakes of flesh shaken into the air. It growled angrily. Suddenly the other dog that was with it stopped its meal and looked up. Henry bit his lip so hard that he drew blood. Two against one was not fair.

The already injured dog crept forward again, drawing Henry's focus to it. Lunging once more, Henry screamed again as he began to swing the wine wildly. By a stroke of luck the bottle landed its mark again and shattered, cutting the dog's face and spilling alcohol into its wounds everywhere. The dog shrieked in pain and stumbled back, still remaining unsteadily on its feet. Not to be deterred by stiff fear again, Henry took what was left of the broken bottle and lunged, plunging the shattered end into the dog's face. Red blood spattered onto the green glass and what was left of the cheap label. Letting out a long shriek it fell to the ground, twitching. Henry stood over it, stupefied.

A roar to his right reminded him for a split second that there was another dog there and still alive, but all too late. Its boulder-like skull and gnashing teeth slammed into Henry's meaty calf. Crying out in pain and surprise, he stumbled and wriggled away from the dog. Luckily it did not get a good hold of Henry and couldn't bite down. Ignoring the pain with the help of the adrenaline, Henry took the steel pipe and swung down at the creature, aiming for the head and neck.

This dog acted smarter than its companion and dodged when Henry tried to attack, though with the dog's back to the wall he was able to corner it and succeed in a few hits. He attacked it enough that it backed off, eying and beginning to circle Henry to look for any opportunities the clumsy man would no doubt provide. Panting and sweating coldly, Henry didn't allow himself to take his eyes off of the abomination that was aiming to kill him.

Screaming in pain again Henry looked down to see the other dog, wine bottle still imbedded in its face, sinking its fangs into his already bruised calf. Frantic to break away from the intensity of the dog's gnashing teeth and gums, he shook and kicked his leg so hard his hips stung, swinging the steel pipe down and shattering what was left of the bottle. The shards punctured the dog's cranium and it gave a wretched shriek and crumbled, shivering madly before it fell limp much to the likeness of the corpse that had been thrown from the men's restroom. Blinded by his pain and instincts Henry pulled his good leg up and down, smashing into the dog's neck, snapping its tendons and spinal cord with a fatal stomp. The dog stiffened with a belated cry for mercy, then fell limp.

Henry's eyes widened and he stopped, much of his adrenaline fading away. In a moment of silence where he was detached from the world with the exception of the dog's corpse under his foot he was in shock of himself. There in front of him lay a death by his own design.

Before he could gawk at it some more the dog that had witnessed everything that had happened growled, preparing to launch itself at Henry in a kamikaze manner. Henry glanced back frantically at the growling dog, then at the women's restroom. Gentleman or not, he was going to have to enter it to get Cynthia. If these dogs infested the men's restroom, then it was a safe assumption that they infiltrated the women's too. Henry dove for the door just as the dog leaped at him, missing him by a hair. He could feel the foul breath of the monster graze his heels as he tumbled disgracefully into the bathroom. Slamming and locking the door securely shut behind him, his nerves shuddered as the dog met the door in a brutally interrupted pounce. After scratching and crying at the door, the dog fell quiet as it gave up.

Panting and sweating, Henry glanced down at his wounded leg. He gagged at the sight of his blood and winced, tearing his eyes away. Blood was never one of Henry's stronger suits. Trying to ignore the warm liquid dribbling down to pool at his socks. he limped into the washroom. There were three stalls; the closest was shut but it was clear that no one was in there, and the other two were wide open on crooked hinges. The bathroom was as unoccupied as his back at his apartment.

There was even a hole.

This hole had a perfect circumference though, and it had red markings and runes encasing it. It looked almost like the red symbol was a part of a cult belief of ancient times. Henry stared at it in wonder. Cynthia was gone, there were no dogs or blood or anything in here save for disgusting toilets and floors most often associated with a subway bathroom. He looked behind and around him before turning back to the hole. This was the only place she could've gone to, right?

Henry clutched the steel pipe close to him and climbed in, hoping that Cynthia was safe.

–

Blacking out again, Henry awoke to his familiar ceiling fan rotating lazily above, the same mechanical whirring it has always been. It was strange that the main power to the television and telephone was cut yet his fan and fridge kept running, but that wasn't what was on Henry's mind at the moment. Sitting up, Henry furrowed his brow in thought.

"What…? Another dream? But it…," he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, "seemed so real…,

"Or could it be…was I really inside that woman's dream?" Henry muttered. He thought of Cynthia and how different she acted when her stomach was upset. People changed with sicknesses and that in itself was normal, but her sickness was so sudden and when she disappeared Henry had wondered if she wasn't just an apparition.

"Oh that's just stupid," he scolded himself, "What am I thinking?" It was a dream after all, _his_ dream, only drastically different than all the other ones he was getting used to. Henry stood up.

Electric pain erupted from his leg all the way to his head and Henry stuttered in surprise. Falling forward, he caught himself on the wall next to his closet, diagonal to the floor. He looked down to see something he had missed before, choking back a sob. His pant leg was still spotted liberally with his blood, and the pain of the wound throbbed to match the sight of the damage.

Pushing himself away from the wall and back onto the bed, Henry brought his injured leg up to inspect it gingerly, as much as he hated the thought of poking around his own ruptured flesh. Carefully he rolled up his pant leg and winced, seeing that the teeth had sunk quite deeply into the huge bruise that had taken up most of the one side of his calf. He didn't know if the dogs carried any diseases, but it was highly likely given the stage of decay they appeared to be in. The bite had to be cleaned.

Before he stood up again he took a long look at his shoe. Bits of fur and rotted flesh, not to mention drying tendons and splashes of canine blood stuck to the soles of his foot from when Henry had buried it into the dog's neck. He would've gagged at how much the smell and sight disgusted him, but at the moment he was more horrified at himself as he continued to stare at the bottom of his shoe.

Henry had never really killed something before. There had been times of course where he'd step on a bug, but most of the time he'd let the bug go on its way if it wasn't immediately threatening him or his home threshold. There was a time way back when where he cried when his aunt would remove and kill a tick for him when he visited her in the summer. He was young then, and he kills ticks now with more of an indifference rather than spite. It was just a weird, awful feeling. He had never and could never see himself killing something, even in self-defense. It just wasn't his first instinct.

Until now apparently.

Those dogs…those _monsters_…Henry had no idea what they were, but for the first time in his life he had mercilessly killed something, and even though it was purely for survival it made him shiver. He could still feel it under his foot, the spinal cord snapping and fraying, the tendons stretching and splitting, the meat squelching as it tore apart. The dog had undulated underneath his foot for a short moment before the life quickly left it, leaving it limp and unmoving. Dead.

Henry closed his eyes and forced himself not to think about it. If he could, he would never, ever do that again, even in a dream that harmed him in the waking world. Yes, it was all still a dream. There was only one other place to affirm this, and he was going there anyways to get some hydrogen peroxide.

The bathroom.

He got up and limped out of his room, tentatively putting his hand on the bathroom knob. Counting to three to prepare himself, he opened the door and stepped in.

His heart sank to new depths as he saw the hole still there and unchanged, the uncomforting noises echoing within it and the cool air urging him to draw near. Shying away from its gaping mouth, he turned to the towel closet to his immediate right, opening the top cabinet and reaching inside to pull the peroxide out. The sink, with the faucet bent to extremes, would not be useful here. Without looking at the hole again Henry limped out of the bathroom and into the kitchen.

His leg burned when he pulled it up to rest on the kitchen counter. He was flexible enough that his hips only stung a little even though he definitely wasn't exceptional at flexibility. That, and he could feel that the years were catching up with him. Doing a strange little hop until he found his balance, he gave a brief, fleeting thought to his age. Wasn't his birthday supposed to be soon? He had lost track of time.

Balancing on his good leg, he let his bleeding one hang over the sink as he unscrewed the cap on the peroxide bottle. Keeping the cap in his teeth as a pacifier, he breathed in and out through his nose furiously before tipping the bottle to pour the peroxide on his wound.

Making bite marks in the cap by gritting his teeth, Henry growled in a low scream as the liquid seared his gash, setting it on fire. Through hot beads of young tears he grabbed a washcloth, wet it with more peroxide, and began to rub in the chemical. It only made the pain crush him more, but it had lost its potent edge and was beginning to cool off. Rather, he was getting used to it.

After the washcloth had become sufficiently bloody he rinsed the chemical and the rest of the blood off with tap water, breathing heavily. He cleaned up the blood that had dripped into the sink, then poorly tied his leg with a towel. It wouldn't stay but it was at the very least something.

Finally he set his leg down, letting his hip rest. September had just begun the last time he knew the date and time, he now remembered. Though it honestly could be November by this point; he had no way to tell. The trees were almost bare from their color-shifting leaves—either it was November already or autumn had come early this year. No matter what month it was, a small part of Henry nagged at him, for he had missed the blaze of color that came with the shifting leaves and all of the photographic opportunities that he had missed via being locked away in his apartment.

Stretching his arms upwards he sighed, feeling the sting in his leg. So it wasn't a dream. Somehow, in some melancholy way, he wasn't surprised. He swung his arms down, a slight frown on his face. Yawning, he looked around his apartment from his kitchen. Nothing had changed since he was last in here.

Wait.

Henry walked to end table near the couch. The furniture has been there since he moved in, and he hadn't moved it since—he had never felt the need to. But from the looks of it, some other party in his apartment had. The table was now cradled in the corner of the wall as opposed to being pushed snug against the arm of the couch. Deciding to straighten it since the change bothered him, he slid the end table back to where it should be, righting one of the only two pictures he had of himself in this room—the one of his high school graduation.

He stared at the corner of the wall. New things, all changes.

The first was a handgun laying on the floor, fully loaded and waiting for him. Gingerly he picked it up and placed on the table, his stomach knowing and hating the fact that he'd need to use it one of these days if those dogs kept attacking him. The second was a message in the plaster, literally carved into the dry wall with an ice pick written in the scrawling letters of a desperate soul.

_The faint hope I had is slowly changing to despair. I've somehow managed to tunnel this far, but no matter what I do, I can't get any farther. The hallway, the windows, the walls…It feels like this room is stuck in another dimension._

_Eileen never noticed…_

Eileen?

Henry did some math in his head. He moved here about two years ago, and Eileen had been here previously. Probably for not a really long time, maybe a year or so. Long enough for the guy before him to at least know her. The wall adjacent to it was exactly what the person in the letter had mentioned. It was carved and scraped away with what seemed to be tiny needles. It was only a dip in the wall, an unsuccessful tunneling into the room next door. All the grooves pointed to a common focal point where the wall was cut to its thinnest, and at that center Henry could see a small pinhead of light.

Crouching down, he examined the hole. Deep in his mind he knew what the pinhead of light would lead to, but he almost forced himself not to think about it. For some reason through all of what was happening to him voyeurism was not something he felt like he needed to be worried about in terms of consequences. Bracing his hands on the wall he pressed his face forward and peeked into the hole.

It led directly into Eileen's bedroom, where she was sitting on her bed and looking around, as if she had lost something. Henry's heart leaped. If he couldn't get her or anyone else's attention at his own door perhaps he could grasp it now.

"Where did I put that damn broom…?" she asked herself, unaware of any other visitor with her there in her room. Henry could see the handle of what she was looking for crossing in his vision, and he almost whispered out to her.

_It's right in front of you_.

He couldn't bring himself to speak. Even if she _could_ hear him, it _would_ reveal that he was nothing but a peeping tom. But even so, as if on cue her eyes stared at what seemed to be straight at his eyes and her face brightened with a certain sort of exasperation at her own stupidity. His chest tightened.

"Oh, there it is," she mentioned, in a sort of cute manner as she stood and picked the broom up. Henry's breath caught in his throat and he pulled away as her thighs, bare up to her skirt, walked to his eye. He sats in front of the hole, not quite sure if he was still there or not. After a few seconds he glanced back into Eileen's room, but she was gone. He had missed his chance to try and catch her, but that didn't matter to him.

Henry stood up and turned away. No wonder he was still a virgin.

Sighing, he gripped the steel pipe that he had kept with him even if there was no actual sign of intrusion in the apartment aside from the end table being moved. It hurt to hold it; both hands were growing red with the constant friction of the rusting steel. Still it was the only weapon he had now, apart from the gun which he _really_ didn't want to use. The wine bottle was completely shattered into shards, parts of it imbedded in a mutant dog's skull. By now he had come to truly accept that this wasn't a dream, and he was going to have to live and survive with the life he had now.

Leaving the gun behind on the table and with nothing else to do, Henry decided to go back through the hole. Though he had finalized his decision to do so, he walked slowly. He knew what was waiting for him on the other side and nothing he could think about to soften the blow would never convince him that his life would never be in danger again. A faint ringing stopped him as he neared the bathroom, turning him towards his bedroom.

For the second time in the past few hours his phone was calling him. Cautiously he entered his bedroom. There was his phone, severed cord and all, blaring loudly. Henry picked it up, unable to say 'hello' before Cynthia's voice pleaded into the speaker with heavy breaths. It sounded as though she had been running from something that had been relentlessly pursuing her.

"Where did you go…?" she asked desperately, "_Hurry!_ Save me! If you need a token, there's one here—,"

The phone blared into static and hung up. Henry didn't even bother staring at the speaker before returning it to the stationary block. Since he figured he was going to have to get used to not understanding things, he didn't even bother to try and decipher any of the screwed and flawed logic that the phone call offered. He left his room, traveling to the front door at the curious sound that was coming from behind it.

It sounded like someone sweeping, and it was fairly loud and close. Shards of broken glass tinkled together as they were swept into a pile. Henry approached the heavily chained door and looked through the peephole.

Eileen moved about just outside of his room, sweeping up the mess she had made earlier with her groceries. This time Henry didn't shy away from staring at her, and watched her every movement. She didn't look up once, but that didn't bother him. Her movements were calm but controlled as she swept up the glass and whatever the contents were, the faint light of the hallway paling her complexion and softening the shadows on her face, neck and arms. He watched, paying a keen artist's attention to the movement of her muscles and the shifting of her hair, the imperfect precision in which she controlled the broom. It was mesmerizing, how normal she was, acting as though there weren't any burdens on her shoulders. At least something in Henry's new universe was unchanging. Ignoring the bloody handprints on the wall that marred the scene, Henry stayed until she was gone.

Even if he accepted that this wasn't a dream, he still took every piece of evidence he found that this could still possibly be in the field of fiction. How he hoped that all of this was in his head and he'd wake up soon, perhaps to the sound of his own screaming, he didn't care. As long as he could find his way back to reality somehow, some way.

His face brought on no expression or preparation for what lay beyond the hole as he entered it again.


	3. Chapter 3

**_EDIT 6/18/11 _**- _Final edit for Chapter 3. As with the others, minor changes to grammar/spelling may still happen. Henry continues to have slightly carnal thoughts, and I put more detail into Cynthia's death to make it just a little more horrible._

_It was kinda funny to go back to a time where Henry could run better than a two-year-old in a snowsuit, as opposed to where I am now in the novelization._

* * *

**Chapter 3**

Tumbling backwards from shock Henry nearly fell back into the hole where he came from. There, sitting in one of the open toilet stalls was a chalk white mannequin splattered chaotically with blood. The eyes were tightly shut to compliment the rest of the face that was contorted in a silent but vivid scream. It was such an accurate portrayal of a woman that Henry half-expected it to stand up and greet him. After a half minute of staring he realized that it was exactly what it was—a mannequin and nothing more.

It was a disturbing sight. The doll exactly resembled Cynthia. For a moment Henry wondered with terror if this is what happened to her when he was struggling to fight the dogs back. It was highly unlikely, for the mannequin was completely synthetic and it was impossible for humans to transform into plastic.

Then again, it was also impossible for anyone to crawl through a magic hole in their bathroom to end up in a monster-infested subway station.

It was supposed to be impossible, anyways.

Henry dared himself to say that thought in his head again. Thinking like that would most definitely lead him down the path to insanity, so he shook his head to push the thoughts away and inspected the mannequin's one bloody hand that reached out to offer something to him in cupped fingers.

Multiple green coins were piled in the mannequin's palm, each one of them having a hole in the middle, giving the appearance of an oriental currency. Henry picked one up, noticing that they curiously weren't bloodstained, and turned it around in his hand. With a very thin tool the words _Lynch St. Line _were carved into the metal, reinforcing his speculations of being in the station just outside of his apartment. Sighing heavily he scooped all the coins up and stuffed them into his front pocket.

He stood in front of the locked door, trying to prepare himself for the dog that was no doubt waiting for him outside. His poorly bandaged leg was fat and stiff from his first encounter, and Henry wasn't interested in learning how to dress wounds any better than he already did. Gripping the steel pipe tightly he took a deep breath and gently unlocked the door as soundlessly as possible, then waited.

When the dog outside made no reaction Henry held the pipe tighter, bit down on his tongue, and body slammed the door with the most brute force he could muster. A shocked squeal cried in response as the dog flew forward to the far wall from its previous resting place just in front of the door. Henry stumbled for a second, hesitating, before raising the steel pipe, ready for the dog to attack.

The monster looked at him as if it really could, obviously indignant. Fear started to build up in Henry, giving him the guts he needed to swing the pipe down. He shut his eyes tight as he did, feeling the pipe beat down on the dog's flesh and muscle. The dog screeched every time he hit it, making Henry tremble.

_A living thing. I'm beating a living thing. A dog. A simple dog, and I'm beating it to death. I'm beating it to death, I'm beating it to death, I'm beating it to _death.

Henry swung the pipe overhand in an arc, only to meet concrete. He opened his eyes in surprise to see the dog, face mauled, sprawled out on the floor. Breathing unsteadily, Henry raised the pipe until he saw a part of the dog's cheek stuck on the end. He screamed and dropped the pipe, nearly losing his balance and falling back onto the first dog corpse. Completely numb from shock, Henry felt like curling up into a corner and crying into his knees.

_I beat a living thing to death._

It would've eaten him if he hadn't, but that didn't make a fighting chance in Henry's mind. He approached the newest carcass with care, the tendons on his neck standing out stiffly. Although he hated the thought of it, he picked up the steel pipe, flinging the skin off like a girl trying to daintily but frantically fling a slug off the end of a stick. Keeping his distance somewhat he peeked at the third dog, wondering if it was still alive.

Something on it twitched, and even though it was most likely just a death rattle to signify its defeat, Henry freaked and threw his foot down, crushing its neck much like the first dog he had slain. After he felt the sinew stretch and snap, he shook the excess flesh off his foot as he bolted down the hall of the subway. He wanted nothing more to do with any of the three dogs in front of those cursed bathrooms. When the turnstiles were near enough to spit to Henry skidded to a stop in the face of another dog.

Already growling, the dog stood up at the sound of his footsteps, circling Henry like a predatory vulture. Wincing, he raised the pipe once more, ignoring the amount of sticky blood glistening on the giving end of it. Copying the dog, Henry gave his poor impression of a predator, limping as little as possible. The upcoming battle hung suspended in the air for what seemed like hours until the dog bunched up its haunches and lunged.

As nimbly as he could Henry dodged, winding up and tensing his muscles as much as he could before releasing the best swing he was capable of. It nearly threw him off-balance but it caught the dog in the back of the head, helping it travel farther so it slammed nose-first into the concrete wall. There was a resounding crack and the dog howled, and as it backed up Henry could see why. Its nose and upper jaw had smashed into one bloody mess, broken. A fang was even lying on the ground from the impact. If the dog could pout it was certainly doing it.

There were a few seconds where Henry chivalrously let it regain its composure, waiting until it was almost finished recovering before filling his lungs with air and swinging like a madman. In the back of his mind a voice whispered that his action was cruel, but instinct overtook his kindness for just a moment until the dog lay dead at his feet. Keeping back the bile in his throat, Henry turned and ran, ignoring the turnstiles. There were staircases leading to the upper world in the direction he was headed, and if he could escape there then maybe Cynthia would be there too.

Henry could've cried out in frustration when two more dogs met him at the beginning of the hallway. Their hog noses twitched animatedly as he approached, still running. He decided to take no chances with his fighting skills and just ran. The two dogs weren't prepared as Henry didn't stop as he ran between them, splitting the two up as he put his long legs to use. Successfully confusing the dogs for just long enough, he earned himself a head start.

Up ahead he could see where the hallway branched to the left and right, staircases on either side to the world above. To the right a giant dirty flesh-colored worm pulsated out of one wall, turning around the corner to one of the staircases. Henry made quick calculations in his head about the diameter of the worm, hearing the two dogs' paws pounding behind him. No man could outrun a muscular canine of that size. He had to act smartly and quickly even if he flunked out of strategic games.

Feeling dogs' spit splatter on the back of his legs Henry pushed himself to endure just a little longer. The stairwells were close enough to confirm his calculations on the diameter of the worm were satisfactory compared to the width of the staircase. Cutting it incredibly close, Henry dove to the right just as both dogs attacked.

His plan worked better than he thought it would. One dog, in mid-leap, could not stop or even slow as it crashed into the wall. It squealed as its face folded inward, dizzily backing up as if it was drunk. The other dog wasn't so lucky. It had been lagging behind and leaped early, landing itself between the worm and the wall. The worm seemed to quiver in annoyance, and all Henry heard was a pitiful shriek followed by a juicy crunch.

Not paying attention to whatever happened to the dogs, Henry took the steps two at a time until he reached the middle of the stairs, finding that he was blocked by crunched debris. Turning around, he saw that the other staircase was blocked as well, with only blackness on the other side as if it didn't lead to the above world at all. He stared on in disbelief, despite his blocked vision courtesy of the giant worm.

A box of bullets lied near his feet. It was really the only reason for coming down here even though he didn't want to use a gun. Henry didn't have a lot of time in thinking about picking it up or not, for the bruised dog was shaking off its delirium in order to attack again. If he had giving more thought about it, he would've left the bullets behind. But his mind was racing and he was making decisions on the fly. The bullets were stuffed into his pocket and Henry was off running again, fleeing to the best of his ability. Cowardly? Perhaps. Henry didn't give a damn. The dog had recovered enough and was almost snapping at his heels again.

He thought he was going to die just before he reached the turnstiles; a horrible side cramp impaired him and he bitterly remembered the running exercises the overweight gym teacher forced them to do in high school. Worse, Henry could feel the dog's horrific tongue lapping at his jean cuffs, nearly tripping him.

As if cut off by a magic barrier, the dog backed down as Henry reached the green turnstiles. He stopped running, breathing so hard it hurt as he used the ticket office for support. The monster paced back and forth at the edge of its territory, drooling as its nose sniffed and wriggled. Henry stared at it for a long time, catching his breath. Considering himself damn lucky once he was sure the dog wouldn't cross the invisible threshold, he breathed a sigh of relief and backtracked to the Lynch Street entrance. Taking out one of the green tokens, he pushed through the creaky gate.

There was no other way that Cynthia could've gone. She had to be down here somewhere, near the subway tracks. Henry descended the steps with no less caution than he had entering this world. He heard no dogs below, but that didn't mean that there weren't any. They could be sleeping, or if they had found some meat they could be feasting on it elsewhere.

An image of dogs burying tongues into Cynthia's supple flesh burned in Henry's brain, peaking with a glaring headache. Henry stopped, cradling his temples and shutting his eyes. It was nothing but just a nasty vision of his own making, but the headache was staying, prodding his nerves. He tried to forcefully shake it off as he'd never had much trouble with headaches until he heard a low, sorrowful moan in the far too close distance. It was a moan that he recognized from the end of his nightmares, a moan that signified deaths. Henry's eyes flew open to see a decaying, stark white man in dark clothing _floating_ towards him, moaning and twitching in irregular ways.

Almost crippled by the growing intensity of the headache as the 'ghost' came closer, Henry almost forgot how to run. Just as the ghost came close enough to reach out and touch him Henry jerked, worming away from its ice cold hand, and sprinted past it, nearly running into another equally painful ghost. This one looked as if he was of African descent in life, wearing what seemed to be nice clothing. Still holding his head Henry bolted past him as well, doing his best to fight back the pain of the headache. His goal was the stairs, bounding down them as he skipped steps everywhere. When he reached the bottom his headache was gone, making room for him to hear the screams of a woman.

"_Please help! Get me out of here! Please _hurry!"

Henry whipped his head to the left to see Cynthia, locked in the train car. Her face was contorted with fear as she slammed her palms and fists frantically against the glass. Henry ran up to the door, frantically inspecting it to see if he could somehow muscle her free. It was no good of course—the doors were mechanically sealed, airtight. Any attempt to break her free would be as futile as Henry making a pass at Cynthia.

Henry was no engineer, and he had very little idea of what to do. Glancing up and down the long train body, he noted that there were no threats nearby. Up ahead he could barely see the head of the train, and with his minimal mechanical knowledge he decided that was as good a place as any to start. He touched his hand to hers through the glass as a means of reassurance, which did next to nothing for her; it did not deter any of her frenzied screams. He blinked to her despite how little she was actually paying attention to him and took off running in what he hoped was the direction of the main engine. Cynthia's muffled screams urged him to hurry as he entered the first car.

Ghosts had started to crawl from the walls behind him as he entered the only open door. Ignoring their presence the best he could, Henry stood before a mass of confusing buttons and switches. He speculated that he had to pick one, but as to which button or switch was totally beyond him. The ghosts reminded him that he had no time either, and he had to make his decision fast and now. This was nothing like when the adrenaline took care of his life while he was fleeing combat. He didn't need the technicalities of his brain functioning then, he was simply relying on his instincts. Things like this were not instinctive to him.

One button was glowing with a bright red light, and on a whim he pushed it, rewarded by a mechanical hum as the doors opened. The button turned to a satisfactory green, indicating what Henry had heard. Hoping that it had at least opened the right door, he stepped out of the control room and looked down the platform.

To his relief Cynthia sauntered toward him, the usual sly smirk on her face. Henry's stomach did a little twirl as she drew near, but she kept only her smirk as she approached, as if she had forgotten that she was offering him under-the-table affections. Looking past her, Henry saw ghosts in the distance. They needed to get away from here, but the only place Henry could think of that could remotely be safe was to enter the train and run across.

"Have you found the exit?" He asked Cynthia as he started to hesitantly lead her closer to the open train door, keeping an eye on the ghosts. She chuckled _again_ at his apparent stupidity before answering.

"Isn't that _your_ job?" she pointed out. Even though she looked and still sounded ridiculously confident Henry could pick up on the definite scare in her voice and eyes. Shrugging his shoulders he turned away from her, entering the train with the ghost close behind. Cynthia hugged him from behind, imitating a tailgater as the ghost drew closer. Henry felt the increasingly familiar headache begin to grow, and he began to run down the length of the train.

It seemed they were going through a great urban labyrinth. Everywhere they tried to turn their path was blocked by some sort of obstacle, whether it be hooks, shelves, tables, mannequins, chains or other such bizarre objects oriented in a surprisingly menacing way. There was even a colorful toy box wrapped in chains sitting on one of the seats, and though it was appealing in a child-like way it made both Henry and Cynthia uncomfortable. To make matters worse, this labyrinth had its very own minotaur—the ghosts. There were times where they'd run straight into a ghost, Henry almost crippling from the strength of the headache. Countless times they'd come to a dead end to find a ghost waiting for them, and were forced to backtrack until they found a solution that worked. Eventually, both of them made it to the other side, a ghost at their heel with two more ready to greet them.

Knowing that Cynthia had no choice but to keep up, Henry ran forward, dodging the ghosts and trying not to falter because of the pain they caused him. Past a few unkempt benches with mannequin limbs and newspapers strewn around them was a door. Whether it was unlocked or not Henry made a beeline for it, the ghost's moans and gurgles becoming so loud that they blocked out Cynthia's footsteps. Henry nearly slammed into the door before fumbling for the handle, opening it, and rushing in. He took three steps forward and paused, waiting to hear the door open again behind him. When there was no sound or indication of life Henry turned around, befuddled.

"Cynthia…," he blurted softly. Had she not followed him? She was tailgating him the entire time through the subway labyrinth, did she suddenly lose face?

Placing his hand on the doorknob, Henry turned it and opened the door just wide enough so he could poke his head through to see if she was still out there.

He came face-to-face with a decaying, hideous, one-eyed ghost. A scream got caught in his throat and he gasped, pulling back and slamming the door shut to immediately cut off his headache before it had time to crescendo into something worse. Breathing heavily with his weight against the door, Henry audibly cursed himself. Assuming that she was right behind him was a mistake he didn't want to make again, _if_ he could make it again. He sighed, putting his back to the door and sliding down it until he sat on the ground.

The room was small, washed with a strong red light. On the wall to the right was a hole leading back to his apartment, and in front of him was a ladder that led downwards. Henry rested above all else before he decided on what he should do, partially for procrastination, partially to help himself get a grip on what was happening and to reassure himself that _yes_, this was _very_ real. After closing his eyes for a while he stood up, trying to breathe as calmly as possible.

He didn't need to return to his apartment quite yet. The only reason why he would need to would be to retrieve the pistol; a dastardly thing that he felt he shouldn't use. Now, though, it wasn't because he was sick at the idea. Of course he still didn't like the thought of learning to use a gun first hand, but it wasn't as strong a hatred of the thing as it was seemingly moments before. Even so, he could endure for a little longer without it. While he no longer hated the concept of the gun, he still hated the image of him using one.

Slowly he climbed down the ladder, rung by rung as he tried not to think of Cynthia too much. He shouldn't have been daydreaming about whatever her special favor was, as he'd never come remotely close to what she was suggesting, but there he was, climbing down the ladder, hoping they'd both live long enough to see that become a reality. A little familiarity with her couldn't hurt, although if he was caught with her in actuality about to give him the special favor, he didn't think he'd let her go too far. Too nervous, yes. And too damn shy. Still. Reaching the last rung helped wrench the thoughts away, for the level below Lynch Street boasted of an unpleasantly graphic change of scenery and décor. If Henry were to describe it the way he perceived it to be, he was traveling inside something or someone's body. The floor had become nothing but grating and planks, raised above the pink and red stains of an unnatural ground. He didn't have much longer to dwell on the scenery as more ghosts—three of them at one time—emerged from the walls, chasing him. The newest ghost to the existing couple resembled an old lady wearing deep, blood-stained purple, coupled with a hat and a shredded black skirt.

Henry ran again. If he were still in school for the track and field unit in gym class he'd be down and out. Adrenaline did funny things for him though, and even though he hadn't yet rid himself of the cramp in his side he seemed to be able to endure far more with the help of fear than he used to think he could. The ghosts weren't even close enough to give him a headache by the time he had reached the door on the far side of the basement.

Another dog greeted him on the platform he guessed to be the King Street Line. Sucking in a breath Henry made this battle quick in giving it the best swings he had, closing his eyes when he stomped its neck to make sure it was dead. The only other thing present was the rest of the giant worm he had seen earlier—it was dangling from the dark ceiling high above, swinging back and forth, sometimes violently. Since it did not actively aim to cause Henry harm, he did his best to pay it no heed and walked on.

He had just gotten to an odd object of art, if you will, constructed of bloody mannequin limbs in the form of a twisted statue when Cynthia's voice crackled over the microphone, filling the platform with her rich accent.

"Henry, I found the exit, come to the turnstile…," Pausing for a second to comprehend, Henry picked up his pace as Cynthia spoke again, desperation clouding her once catty tone.

"Henry! I found the exit, come to the turnstile! Hurry, _hurry_…!"

A train car completely full of dogs infested Henry's right, all of their hog noses sniffing greedily at him. Some were stuck in there, but some had managed to climb over the others and were starting to hungrily follow him. Keeping his eyes on the dogs as he listened to her voice, Henry maneuvered around the danger and jogged further down the platform.

"It's _him_…he's _coming—!_" Cynthia screamed into the microphone before she was cruelly cut off by a fit of feedback and static.

Henry stopped immediately. It didn't matter who 'he' was, Cynthia was absolutely terrified and that was enough to confirm that she was in very harsh danger.. Gone was the sleazy, arrogant prostitute mask she had put on for him when they first met. Her fear had peeled all of her layers away, leaving her utterly human, and that along with the abruptness of her scream was more than enough to make Henry beyond any sort of queasy he had ever felt before.

Aiming for the bloody smell emanating from his injured leg, a dog rushed in from behind and bulldozed the toweled calf. Henry winced, but didn't falter as the towel absorbed most of the hard-headed blow. Escalators towered in front of him, and without preparation or any regards to any monster around him, Henry stepped onto the upwards escalator, sprinting up it to reach the turnstiles.

He didn't make it ten paces before some sort of clawed hand literally stretched out from the wall and cuffed him quite soundly on the chin. The force of the blow sent Henry in a sloppy pinwheel motion, giving him the impression of being caught in the physics of a Wile E. Coyote failure. Even though he knew he was beyond lucky that no broken bones or snapped spinal cords happened when he crashed on the escalator, the pain of the new bruises everywhere on his body was a little harrowing as he laid there splayed on the narrow steps. Spots danced before his eyes as the back of his head throbbed from hitting the railing. Moaning in pain, Henry sat up, seeing a glimpse of the perpetrator mold back into the wall. It resembled the top half of a human torso with elongated lean arms, the textures of the wall stretching over it like paper-thin skin. It was impossible to pick out from just looking at the wall, and from the hellish noises it made he guessed that those creatures plagued every couple of feet.

The wall man appeared again to strike, and Henry flattened himself against the stairs, avoiding the attack. Making its distinct noise, the creature swung and retreated as if nothing ever happened, coaxing Henry to uneasily stand back up. The same noise echoed back and forth between the two long walls, confirming his suspicions. He gripped the steel pipe tightly, having never let it go for instinctive fear of being left defenseless. These demons were putting a frustrating damper on his speed, allowing Cynthia to suffer whatever was happening to her. A violent image flashed in his head again and he swallowed hard to drown it. He'd have to be careful if he wanted to make it through uninjured enough to be able to help her when he finally reached the turnstiles.

Fortunately, he could clearly see when the next monster would emerge if he studied filthy walls. Part of the concrete would bulge and stretch as a deformed head started to pop out, allowing Henry to run through, wait, or whack it with the pipe to momentarily stun it. He was lucky enough not to be hit again through the rest of the curiously long escalator before he reached the top.

There was a ghost waiting for him, but Henry had set his mind to a single goal, leading him to flee without giving it much notice. The turnstiles were not far away and he had already wasted far too much time. Taking the stairs three at a time, he slipped in his haste, nearly falling flat on his face. He caught himself by throwing out his hand just before he fell on the poorly-cushioned concrete stairs. Blowing out an exasperated breath to regain himself, he took just a second more to recover before clearing the rest of the steps bent over and slightly pawing at them to help him move along.

He had planned to reach the top and immediately start searching for or helping Cynthia, but as soon as he placed his foot down he fell victim to another Looney Tunes-esque tumble as he slipped, falling flat on his back. Henry groaned, shutting his eyes to dull the extra pain to his growing bruises. Sitting up slowly, he glanced at what he had slipped on, and choked on his breath.

Lipstick, now cracked, was the culprit for Henry's second blunder. It was one item amongst many that were strewn about the immediate inside of the King Street Line turnstile, from make-up to cards to mirrors to condoms. They had all tumbled out of Cynthia's purse, lying as the centerpiece of the chaos. What had really caught his breath, though, was the blood.

Admittedly it wasn't a lot of blood, only a few drops in random clusters here and there, but it was blood, and there was little debate in his head over whether it was Cynthia's or not. A shard from her broken mirror had edges that were starting to cake with red, as if it had been used as a weapon either to defend or attack with.

Henry gulped.

A sudden crash inside the turnstile booth captured Henry's attention, and he stood up carefully. The air felt wrong and stale. There was something horribly out of place. On the door to the booth was a plate, rosy in color with a woman reclining sensually on it. Engraved on the back was the word _Temptation_. He removed it thoughtlessly to a resounding click as the door unlocked. Tentatively he reached out, grasping the handle. A sick feeling overcame him as he pushed the door open, hoping his stomach was lying to him.

Not even in the movies had Henry seen so much blood. It smeared on every object in the room, decimated the documents, streaked the windows, pooled on the floor. There was no drain for it to flow out, so it sat there, rotting, festering, eating away at the bland colors originally placed down in the foundations of the confined office. The puddle on the floor must've been a yard in diameter if not more, sinking down to about a quarter of an inch deep. In the midst of so much red lay a crumpled, terribly beaten woman—covered in blood to such an extent that she almost blended into the background. Henry gaped, dumbstruck. Nerves struck him all at once, prickling from his toes to his neck, and his feet ran forward, stumbling, falling into the pool of blood, landing him on his knees beside what used to be Cynthia.

His hand reached out to grasp hers, clutching her rickety ribcage.

"Are you okay?" He asked, his voice wavering. Maybe it wasn't her blood. Of course, she just passed out because she'd never seen so much, like him. Maybe she wasn't hurt.

But as Henry gently picked her up off of the floor with his arm spanning her back to support her, his heart sank deeply as he realized that it was not so. Fleshy, cruel slashes and stabs ravaged her delicate back, allowing Henry's fingers to sink into her exposed muscle, her free flesh hanging like ribbons over his hand. Cynthia's eyes opened, rolling around loosely until they saw him. She was still alive but drastically weak and fading fast. Even those she saw him, her focus was distant and for a while he wasn't even sure she recognized him. Something in Henry's heart popped, and he felt it sink down into the dark corners of his stomach. He watched as the blood striping her face dribbled down and off her skin, creating ripples in the pool beneath her. Her teeth were stained a dull orange as more blood she had coughed up gurgled out the corner of her lips. Once a lush brown but now dulling to a glossy black, her eyes never left Henry's as she began to speak, her body undulating with the effort.

"It's just…a dream, right?" she coughed. Henry, speechless, could only gawk at the amount of blood she spilled while still being able to talk. Her body, once healthy and spontaneous, now had irregular spasms, signing her untimely death.

"I think…I drank too much last night…," She sputtered, every breath she took spraying blood in a mist onto Henry's chest. Slowly, she raised her now brittle arm, placing a blood covered hand on his cheek in a gesture that sent chills down Henry's spine. He gripped her tightly around the torso, as if to keep her alive longer.

"…I never got to do that…'special favor' for you…," She murmured. Shaking his head ever so slightly, Henry opened his mouth to speak but couldn't, a dull pain tugging at his tongue. He had seen a dead human before. His grandparents' funerals were open caskets, but it was very different seeing them cleaned up and washed with preservatives, old and wrinkled compared to soaked in blood, young and spunky. She was merely a stranger to him and yet he held her on his lap as if she was his cousin. This shouldn't have happened. This shouldn't have happened.

"_I_…," She grasped Henry's hand as she spoke, taking small comfort in the way he cradled her fingers firmly yet gently, "I feel like I'm dying…," she cried, gargling blood.

Henry shook his head again to rid himself of the strange burning at the back of his throat, finally finding his voice to speak.

"It's okay…," he whispered, sullen yet trying to sound calm. His face looked as normal as ever, even though he was holding back the sorrowed emotions that would make this scene only worse, "It's just…a dream,"

He was lying to her as a final statement. Normally he wouldn't like lying, but, as he had heard people say before, it comes naturally to someone when they need comfort. Swallowing hard, Henry clenched his jaw and tensed his shoulders to keep everything back.

Breathing so loudly and pitifully it hurt to hear, Cynthia struggled to understand everything he said. Then, in mid-breath, Henry felt her lungs freeze, her eyes rapidly twitching back and forth before shivering to a stop, staring directly into his. The air that was inside her lungs rushed out of her parted lips in a calm fashion, her torso deflating. Her hand, pressed against Henry's cheek, fell down, hitting the floor with a small splash. Everything about her went irreversibly limp, her head falling back to expose her smooth neck, sporting veins that would never be used again. Henry couldn't move. The weight of her body fell against his thighs and arm, heavy and useless. Still holding her hand gently he stared at her glazed eyes, transfixed by their lifelessness.

Disturbed beyond measure, he forced his gaze away, staring down at something carved cruelly into her left breast.

_16121_.

He had been too concerned for her that he hadn't noticed the numbers at first. Now that he had seen them, he wished they weren't there. They branded her like cattle in a herd impossible to name, cut into her skin in the crudest way and in the worst place possible. Whoever had done this was shouting to the world that all people they ran across were mere livestock to them, and they could dispose of them as they pleased, dehumanizing everything by the numbers.

Oddly enough, Henry did not feel any anger. Not yet, anyways. He just felt sick. Crying was not something he felt as if he was going to do; he didn't know Cynthia that well or closely, even if she wanted to be that close or closer. At the moment he felt as if he might throw up.

Gently he laid Cynthia on the floor, letting the blood lace through her hair. Before standing up he placed her hand over her breast to cover up the number, somehow faintly humanizing her again. Haunted by her eyes, he carefully shut them with a soft sweep of his hand. He paused for a moment, keeping his hand on her face.

_Well if it's not a dream, what is it?_

Standing up, he continued to stare at her dead body, his vision growing blurry as a faint tug pulled him away. Before he blacked out he found the right words to answer her question.

_A nightmare._


	4. Chapter 4

_Hey look guys it's Jasper! Jasper who was voiced by the same guy who voiced Vincent! I love Vincent! Hooray!_

_Some of this...I wrote when I was dead tired. Like, 'oh hey is that the rays of our yellow sun? I believe it is' dead tired. See how much I love you guys? Really. Also, I hate the red diary. Why? I had written the first part out and everything flowed nicely until I went back through some videos and was like...POOP. I FORGOT A NOTE. So I had to pop it ungracefully in there. Urrgh I'm talking so much but I wanna say one more thing! Jasper Gein was named after a Wisconsin cannibal, Ed Gein. He shot a woman because he literally believed she was a doe. Skinned her and hung her up in a smokehouse. 8D Why am I so excited over this? I love Wisconsin cannibals. I'm a Wisconsinite. OKAY SHUTTING UP NOW._

_

* * *

_**Silent Hill 4: Chapter 4**

"Cynthia…,"

Henry sat upright in his bed. After staring at the foot of it for a while he raised his vision to his desk, staring off into the distance. He didn't feel like sleeping whatsoever. Daydreaming sadly for a moment, he was interrupted by ambulance sirens blaring outside of his window. He looked at the panes, seeing the flash of red and white lights.

"Man, what's that noise out there?"

If Cynthia died in that crazy world, did that mean that she died here as well? Even worse to think about was the fact that the worlds were actually melting together and the subway station really was infested with dogs and ghosts. Henry certainly didn't expect that it was the same Cynthia that died in the horror world than in this world. Regardless he didn't want to look out the window. The lights had stopped, and from his bed he could barely see an ambulance stopped near the subway entrance of the very station he was stuck in. Feeling gloomy, Henry stood up in a trance, walking out of his room.

"_Hurry up with that ambulance!"_ his radio crackled, _"Quit yappin' and move her already!_"

"_Damn, she's got numbers carved into her chest," _a different voice spoke, deeper feeling in it, _"I wonder if…,_"

The radio blurred to static before going dead. Pausing for only a moment outside of his bedroom door to hear the intercepted police radio, Henry blinked gradually before trudging into the bathroom.

The hole had grown bigger, but he took little notice. The noise blurting out from it didn't bother him either. Instead he laid the steel pipe on the floor and bent over, turning on the shower to hot water. Without waiting for it to warm up Henry climbed into the tub, bloodstained clothes still on and sat, letting the shower head spray water continuously on him. Closing his eyes, he let the water zone him out, calming him greatly.

There was nothing he could do to rid himself of the memory engraved in his mind—the memory of Cynthia losing her last breath, the memory of becoming Cynthia's deathbed. The blood that had not yet begun to smell it was so fresh, covering every object in the room. Her hand on his cheek, leaving finger smears.

Henry touched his cheek, taking a look at the loose blood now on his fingertips. He stared until his vision blurred, though not from tears. It wasn't long until he rubbed his cheek raw, making sure to get all the blood washed off. Warm water washed the loose blood down the drain, swirling around like a Hitchcock film.

Hugging his knees close to him, he stared at the drain, zoning out again. It wasn't until the skin on his hands started to wrinkle that Henry reached forward, shutting the shower off. The blood on his clothes was still there, but it wasn't as deeply concentrated anymore. Sopping wet, Henry sat in his tub for another hour or so, letting himself air-dry. Then, after the sick feeling had disappeared from his stomach, he climbed out of the tub and left the bathroom, not quite ready to enter the hole yet. He needed to get something.

Lying just in front of pictures that he had of his graduation and his first day of kindergarten was the gun. There was no hesitation this time as Henry picked the pistol up, turning it around in his hands. He examined it for a while before his eyes wandered to the hole in the wall.

The threat of the consequences for voyeurism were put far behind him now as he kneeled down, putting his eye to the hole. He needed to make sure Eileen was still there, and that she was still caught in her world of reality. For some reason it was some sort of lifeline for him—making sure that the reality he was familiar with still existed.

He was met with a lively laugh when he peeked in, seeing Eileen sitting on the corner of her bed. A muffled noise responded, and in turn Eileen laughed again, harder this time, looking away because whatever she was watching on her television was a little too funny. Henry sighed deeply as he watched. Her laughter was continuous; it only seemed to stop when there was a commercial on, and even then it was only a pause.

Henry moved away from the hole, sitting near it and tipping the back of his head so it rested against the wall. Eileen still laughed, loud enough so he could just hear it. Spending the luxury of a few minutes, he stayed, listening to her happiness. When was the last time he laughed? A week ago? A month ago? He had lost track of time completely—he knew he had been stuck in this room for five days and that was it. Five days seemed like a year to him; making it impossible for him to remember the last time he had felt well enough to share a laugh with someone.

Henry sighed again, forcing himself to his feet. He was about to cross the room where a red-orange slip of paper caught his eye, placed underneath his door. Curious, he picked it up, hoping it was a note from the superintendent.

_Although the cult itself is gone, I'm sure the spirit of it is still alive. There are too many strange things happening in that town. I'm investigating two people. Or maybe I should say just one. I've just about discovered what's going on._

_April 8_

The note explained next to nothing to Henry. He had hoped it was from the superintendent Frank Sunderland because it would tell him that someone had noticed his disappearance, but no such luck. Henry didn't even know if he had any luck with him at this point, or if it was real. Standing up he looked in the peephole to see Frank himself outside, mopping the floor. He was probably cleaning up the rest of Eileen's mess, whatever she couldn't sweep up on her own. Frank was merely in the background to Henry though, because the wall with the fifteen handprints had changed.

There was a newer, redder sixteenth one.

Henry backed away, somehow knowing it had to do with Cynthia without any evidence to support it. Remembering her reminded him of the strange rosy placard he picked up before entering the room. Finding the placard on the end table near his bed, he took it and placed it in his trunk along with the subway coins. Gripping the gun, he walked back into the bathroom, picking up the steel pipe.

Tucking the gun into his waistband, the only possible place for him to put it, he faced the hole, studying how it had grown. For a brief moment he wondered where it could take him, or if it just led back to the subway. Clambering into the hole, he was soon to find out as a familiar tug pulled him into the darkness.

--

Henry awoke sitting up like before, his seat planted in a mix of dirt, pine needles, and pebbles. Artificial light from a lamp post shined on him, lighting up enough of the general area. Some sort of fluttering to Henry's left made him raise his head, observing the area. He was surrounded by dark pine trees, sitting at the beginning of a path. It was as dark as midnight, though the air had a moist, lukewarm feel to it. Standing up, he brushed off the dirt on the seat of his pants and looked down the dirt path. Up ahead was a gate made of iron bars, behind him was a forested cliff. Keeping the steel pipe relaxed but ready, Henry began to move forward.

Scrawled red writing on a tree stump caught his eye, and he paused to investigate. _This writing…?_ He thought to himself, seeing the symbols and wondering if it really was writing or extreme abstract art. _What does it mean…?_

On two smooth stones next to the gate was more of the red scrawling, writing that he couldn't read. Deciding to ignore it for the time being, he opened the gate with a loud creak, entering into the next area.

Lighted with another lamp post and lights in the distance, this area was very similar to the last one, only with a building on the far end. A howl from a wolf startled Henry as he advanced, though he made no physical indication save for his eyes darting to the side. To the right of the industrial building door was a hole, just on the other side of a sign warning him of danger in the building. He entered despite the sign—there was nowhere else to go but there anyways.

The inside of the building was open and bleak. Multiple steel barrels filled with an unknown liquid littered the place, possibly the reason for the danger sign. What seemed to be an entrance to a sewage pipe stuck out from one of the walls, barred off and dry. Henry tried to get closer to investigate further, but was interrupted by several annoyed buzzes.

Six bird-sized flying creatures detached from the ceiling and walls, swarming around Henry, their wings flapping rapidly. He couldn't see if they were bats or bugs, but they had some sort of sharpness about them that hurt him when they dove down on his shoulders. Whatever they were, he just desperately hoped they weren't poisonous because he had been hit about five times now. That number would be rising quick if he didn't do something about them.

Raising the steel pipe, Henry shut one eye against the wind from their wings, attempting to aim. They hovered about in a group, creating a small cloud. Figuring anything was worth a shot, Henry swung the pipe through, scattering the cloud and landing several of the creatures to the ground. Having less mercy for them than the dogs since they had no identifiable features close to any animal he could think of at the moment, Henry finished them off quickly with quick stomps, all of them extra gooey. Guessing they were bugs from the slime that now covered the bottom of his shoe, Henry killed the rest of them without trouble. If anything they seemed more annoying than dangerous for the time being.

Finding a chance box of gun ammo, Henry pocketed it and continued to the next room, met with the same flying enemy. Disposing of them was almost too easy, giving Henry a streak of confidence. The back of his mind warned him though that the nuisances may be more than just that in the future, but for the time being he was enjoying the lift in spirit.

No threats were posed towards him in the next room, only a curiosity. A pale yellow two-door sedan was parked randomly in the grass, nowhere near the path. The headlights and engine were still running, allowing Henry to see that the driver's seat door was wide open. Nobody was inside it or near it, and it looked like it had been there for a while. Through the window Henry could see all sorts of things scattered on both the driver's and the passenger's seat. Moving around to the driver's side, he picked up a scrap of paper that had been written on. He brought it to the headlights and read.

_It's been a while since I came here to Silent hill. Maybe I'll meet the Devil this time. But whenever I come to a cool place like Silent Hill, I always get real thirsty._

_Jasper Gein_

_As if things made too much sense already_, Henry thought sarcastically. Whoever this Jasper person was, he definitely had a few screws loose. It had taken Henry quite a while to even read what his erratic handwriting said. The paper didn't seem like it was any part of a diary either, unless it was the type of spontaneous diary where all the scraps of it were kept in a book somewhere. Somehow Henry doubted it. He threw the scrap back into the car, noticing a memo pad. As crazy as this guy seemed, Henry was willing to struggle through his bad handwriting to see if he had any sense of what was happening.

_I'm not sure what that nosy guy meant when he said: "His home is the orphanage in the middle. The lake is northwest. So the opposite is southeast." The nosy guy said one other thing I don't understand. "If you bring the dug up key, you can't go back. Put it away somewhere before you return there."_

At least Jasper had enough of himself together to understand that what the 'nosy guy' said was incomprehensible. Henry pocketed the note, saving it as information for later. Even if what the nosy guy said was weird, it sounded as if he knew what he was talking about. Leaving the room, Henry made a mental note of another stump with strange writing on it.

A young man sat on a stone in front of a huge boulder with spider web patterns on it. He was lanky, skittish, and had a terrible stutter when he talked. Judging from his erratic speech Henry guessed that this was Jasper; he had a voice that matched his writing. He didn't even need to introduce himself or anything before Jasper began to speak to him.

"So you came…to investigate this…this stone too…," His stutter was so bad that it took him much longer than needed to get that and every other sentence out. Henry remained quiet, staring at the rock Jasper was talking about.

"There was another guy here before…A…a…a real nosy guy…But I was the one, one who found this stone first…," Jasper made strange hand movements as he talked, as if he had some sort of medical condition or was on drugs. In the dim light though Henry couldn't see if Jasper's eyes were abnormally dilated or not, and he'd rather not assume that he was a druggie until he had more evidence. His hands shook as he continued to speak.

"In the old days, the natives called it…'Nahkeehona'…They used it in a ceremony…for talkin' with their dead ancestors," Henry continued to stare at 'Nahkeehona', studying the strangeness of its surface. Jasper seemed to be one of those kid occult researchers, probably a fan of all paranormal things from movies to comic books. He certainly seemed younger than Henry with his buzzed Mohawk and smooth long features. Also, he wasn't fazed at the fact that Henry was carrying a bloody steel pipe, his shirt also soiled with the same material. He figured Jasper was a little on the eccentric side to not question what he was carrying.

"And now…those guys are, are usin' it too…Call it the 'mother stone'…," Jasper made a motion by raising his hands and jerking his head a little bit when he said mother stone, as if putting visible quotation marks around the words, "They're just up, up ahead, in that, that weird building…Operatin' some kinda crazy religious cult…,"

Henry took his eyes away from Nahkeehona to look at Jasper. The mysterious writer of the red notes that he received mentioned something about a cult as well. Jasper looked away, as if unable to maintain eye contact and waved his hand. His voice dropped a level or two when he said the next few parts, as if he was suddenly overcome with sad feelings.

"They used to collect orphans…And, and, and…did things to 'em…," As soon as Jasper brought up the subject he turned away from it, avoiding it like the plague.

"Kinda gives you the chills, huh? This stone…," he asked. Henry gazed back up at Nahkeehona, specifically at one of the geode spots that were placed at random on the great boulder. He wouldn't lie—it did give him a small case of the creeps, but it wasn't anything too severe. What Jasper had said about the orphans bothered him more than just this stone. Nodding a curt yes anyways, Henry turned from Jasper and followed the candlelit fence to the next gate. It's not that he thought Jasper was too crazy to handle, it's just that Henry felt the ever-pulling urge to keep moving. Jasper himself seemed alright—he may not think straight a lot of the time, but he appeared to be reasonable enough.

Taking only two paces down the path Henry froze, seeing two, no four dogs up ahead. They moved leisurely around, taking no interest in his smell that they must've picked up on. Sucking in a breath, Henry walked forward very slowly. The last thing he wanted to do was agitate even just one of the dogs.

Following the path, Henry tried to keep track of every dog he saw, which was slightly difficult but manageable. Neither of them seemed to move much, except for one that looked as if it was going to start circling Henry. Moving even slower and more cautiously, he raised the pipe in preparation for attack. The dog started to close in, confirming Henry's fears. He was so busy concentrating on the dog that he didn't pay attention to where he was stepping.

Growling, the dog advanced further. It was clear that it was hungrier than the others, seeing as it was the only one getting ready to attack. Starting to breathe heavily to get the adrenaline pumping in his veins again, Henry slid a foot forward to get a better stance. The only other thought in his mind aside from the dog in front of him were the other dogs—as soon as he killed this one would the others find renewed blood thirst?

Forcing himself not to think about it, Henry prepared himself to swing when the dog, walking forward the entire time, triggered its own death. Something snapped from above, and a mass of bloody wooden stakes, covered with smeared leather, came crashing down. The idiotic dog didn't even have time to yelp before it was crushed, the sound of splintered bones ringing in Henry's ears. He was dead frozen again, for if he had taken one step forward he would've met the same fate as the dog. The tip of his nose itched from the wind the trap created and he scratched it, making sure it wasn't nipped. Looking down at his feet he finally realized that the dirt was soaked thorough with blood and bile, indicating that above was certain doom. He groaned. As careful as he was, he needed to step his senses up a lot. He nearly just died from ignorant stupidity.

The other dogs, startled onto their feet, watched as Henry high-tailed it out of the area, expecting that now they would attack mercilessly. The first thing Henry saw however was a new area with a new pack of dogs. Sighing quietly in exasperation, he walked off the path through the damp grass. These dogs were more active than the ones before, and it was fairly dangerous even to move. Keeping his lungs filled with air, he anticipated a dog leaping at him at any moment. Anxious to get out of here, Henry forgot that he needed to walk and started to run. The gate ahead was designed more like an entrance to a home, with stone pillars on either side of the door and a combination wood and metal fence surrounding the area. In the dim fogginess Henry could vaguely make out the outline of a large building behind the door. Thinking of it as a haven, it only helped him in running faster.

Before he could comprehend it Henry had face-planted straight into the dirt, pain shooting up from his good leg. Twisting around stiffly he saw that a mutant dog, skin pinker than usual, had bitten down hard into the meat of his leg. Henry gurgled out a cry as it sank its fangs in deeper, thrashing its head back and forth. The pain was unbearable as he felt his skin begin to rip and tear, blood soaking his pant leg. Out of the corner of his eye he could see two more dogs coming closer to investigate. The tongue of the dog that was biting him began to wrap around the rest of his leg, the warm, sticky saliva soaking it.

Wincing as tears began to form, Henry dropped the steel pipe and fumbled around his waistband for the gun. Finding it pressed against his hip he struggled to pull it out quickly, frantic to take the safety off. Not having any idea of how to work a gun didn't help as he tried to find the switch. His hands sweaty, Henry had just heard a resounding click as he popped the safety off when his chin met dirt again.

Tightening the tongue around his leg, the monster had begun to drag him along the ground, growling at the other dogs. Henry cried out each time the dog tugged, the pain worsening by the second as more skin shredded from its fangs. Gritting his teeth, he made sure the gun was loaded before twisting his torso around. It was a terribly uncomfortable position to start with, his chest and hips were anything but in alignment, and to make matters worse the dog had begun to chew his meat, as if in punishment for his sudden movement. Growling out a curse to the beast, Henry aimed and squeezed the trigger.

A small kick jerked his hands backward, causing Henry's eyes to automatically close for a split second. When he opened them he saw the dog, skull mashed in from the force of a bullet at point blank. He stared at it until the other dogs, no longer deterred by the first attacker, began to close in. Stumbling, he sloppily stood up, finding that the corpse was still very much attached to him from the teeth and tongue. Luckily he was close to the door, so in a faint comical fashion Henry limped toward it, getting a glimpse of a sign before turning the knob.

_Silent Hill Smile Support Society_

"_Wish House"_

Guessing that it was the orphanage run by the cult Jasper mentioned, Henry pushed the door open with his body weight, dragging the corpse in with him before shutting the door to a couple of now roaring dogs.

Henry sat.

Immediately he set the gun down, taking his hands to the stiffening dog's tongue, carefully unwrapping it with his unwilling fingers. It was wet and hot, the saliva that had soaked his thigh making the tongue stick to the denim of his jeans. Henry cussed again in disgust as he threw the tongue aside, shaking the spit off of his hands. The spit caused a lot of dirt to stick to it, and with the next job Henry needed to do he didn't want any filth stuck to him at all.

Drying his fingers on his shirt Henry reached downwards, putting one hand on top of the dog's jaw with the other beneath. Carefully he pried the mouth open wide enough so its fangs were no longer lodged in his skin. The dog felt absolutely disgusting, the folds of rotting skin were leathery and unwelcome, and the random patches of fur felt like a mass of iron bristle. Henry didn't let go until his leg was successfully away from its mouth. Breathing a sigh of relief, he began to lower the head to the ground, as if putting it to peace.

The dog snapped its jaw shut and roared through its snout.

Henry jumped in surprise, expecting to feel pain in his hands. His fingers were caught in its mouth, but there was nothing in the back of its jaw but gums. Using the sticky saliva as a type of lubricant, Henry jerked his hands away, eyes wide and startled. The dog growled, spat, and struggled to stand up. Fingering for the gun at his side, Henry sat there, watching it.

Sputtering and sneezing, the dog's legs trembled as they attempted to support it. He watched in feared awe as it twitched madly, growling once more in rage before settling for a pitiful cry.

Then the dog collapsed back into the dirt, dead.

Henry gawked for a while, watching blood pool underneath its head before struggling to stand up, ending with more success than the late dog. He grimaced at his soggy pant leg, one half covered in saliva and the other with blood. Testing his weight on it, he took a few steps forward, looking around him.

There were four doors all leading to the Wish House, what seemed to be the centerpiece of this world. More strange writing was scattered about, with a hole on the right and kid toys and graffiti littering the place. Henry glanced down at his leg then at the hole. It didn't hurt as badly as he thought it would, and he could stand a little more exploration before returning to his apartment. He could do nothing with it except douse it in hydrogen peroxide and bandage it with fabric anyways, it was better to keep moving.

Choosing the door to the northwest for no reason, Henry limped through, finding himself on another dirt path with a bloodstain. Looking around, he saw no possible means of a trap. That didn't convince him though, so to be on the safe side he walked around it in the cool grass. Other than that there was nothing of interest in the area save for the gate into the next. Henry took it without thinking, coming to a confrontation with a ghost hovering above more bloodstains. Nearly cussing out loud again, Henry dove off of the path, avoiding the ghost as best he could with his terrible limp. The path curved into a metal door and hole, allowing Henry to choose. What he would've liked was to go through the hole, but the ghost, faster than he was, blocked his path at the last minute.

Henry grasped his head from the pain the ghost brought, narrowly dodging a swipe from it. The ghost resembled a balding middle-aged farmer, overalls falling off. On the pasty white skin Henry caught a glimpse of carved numbers on the collarbone. His mind flashing back to Cynthia, Henry bowled into the door, sliding his body through and closing it fast. Thankful that the headache was immediately cut off Henry turned around and stopped, staring at the odd little boy in front of him.

The boy was wearing what looked like hand-me-down clothes, head bowed while moving from foot to foot, obviously nervous. Henry tucked the gun away into his waistband again before approaching the kid. He wasn't the greatest with children, mostly because of his timid personality and his lack of experience with them as an adult. Still, he tried his best, leaning down to make himself seem shorter despite his hurt legs.

"Hey…little boy, what are you doing here?" He asked softly, honestly wondering why in God's name a simple child was in a world of monsters like this.

The boy looked up at him; face round and big eyes saddened. Henry was a little taken aback at the amount of weariness the boys expression held, but before the boy or Henry could speak again Jasper appeared, stumbling back a bit as he saw the little kid, eyes widening.

"You're…," The kid turned around at the voice as Henry straightened up, both of them staring right at Jasper, "Finally…the Third Revelation…," he sputtered.

Henry cocked an eyebrow at Jasper, hoping he would look at him so he would get the signal to shut the hell up. He was starting to speak nonsense and Henry was worried that something would happen between Jasper and the kid. However, Jasper completely ignored Henry's presence as he continued to blabber, putting his hands to his head.

"Something's gonna happen…That nosy guy that was here…He said it too…Something _big's_ gonna happen…Finally it's gonna happen!" Jasper raised his hands to the hair, letting out a crooked insane laugh as he walked away, crazily overjoyed. Henry took a step back in response, wondering if Jasper was really okay.

The boy crouched down, as if trying to defend himself for a moment before pumping his small legs to run away. Henry moved out of the way quickly in response, watching as the kid reached up to open the door before going through. He really didn't blame him for fleeing.

Taking a look around, Henry found himself alone in a poorly taken care of graveyard. Some of the graves weren't very interesting, while others had certain phrases carved into them, such as '_Best wishes for the Wish House._' The one grave that caught his eye though was one that was dug up, the coffin open and eaten by moths. Henry approached it carefully, seeing bloody numbers painted on the bottom.

_11121_

Once again Henry's mind flashed back to Cynthia and the similar numbers that were carved in her breast. The ghost just outside of the graveyard had numbers too, and it was getting clearer to Henry that the three numbers were a little more than just related. The ghost's number, _04121_, emphasized that some killer was counting something. Dead bodies? Henry certainly hoped not if the numbers were that huge.

Turning his mind away from the concept, Henry saw a door on the far end of the graveyard. Carved into the white wood and filled in with red was a strange circular cult symbol. Henry couldn't help but be fascinated by it—it had a sort of artistic quality that made it both beautiful and disturbing at the same time. The door was locked soundly from the other side, disallowing entry. Sighing, he turned around and limped back to the door he entered through, preparing himself for another ghost run.

The 04121 ghost was waiting for him, but was slow to react as Henry limped quickly past him, ignoring the pain it was bringing him to go so fast. A headache didn't even come to bother him as he ran past, allowing him to keep going and not slow down.

Upon reaching the Wish House Henry told himself that he was going through the hole to clean up his wound. As he turned around the corner of the building however, he saw Jasper standing on the porch, back slightly bent with bad posture. Slightly annoyed by his previous act, Henry debated on ignoring him or confronting him. Without doing either Jasper started to speak without Henry having to do anything but be there.

"The door won't open…," he muttered, gesturing toward the front door of the Wish House. Henry climbed the steps, trying the knob. It was locked, but if he had a key he could go through, unlike the marked door in the graveyard.

"That nosy guy gave me something really good…," Jasper mentioned, "I could let you have it…but not for free," he waved his arms and shook his head, emphasizing that he wanted something in return. Henry turned toward him, listening.

"I'm really thirsty…," he whined. Henry had to stop himself from rolling his eyes in front of him, "I'm so, so thirsty…oh chocolate…oh _chocolate_,"

Sighing, Henry walked down the steps and towards the hole. Expiration date or not, he was going to have to give up his last bottle of milk to Jasper. Highly exasperated, Henry climbed through the hole, somewhat eager to return to his apartment.

--

Waking up to his ceiling fan again, Henry gently got himself out of bed, careful not to jostle his wounded leg too much. Taking short notice of his personal photo of an old church in Silent Hill, he limped out of his bedroom, readying himself to go to the kitchen where the hydrogen peroxide was left. As soon as he got into the hallway though, a sharp buzzing rang in his ears. Henry blinked, realizing that someone was ringing his doorbell.

Stumbling and nearly falling on the floor he ran up to the door, looking through the peephole to see Eileen Galvin's face, her finger pressing the doorbell multiple times. Suddenly forgetting all the other times he failed at grabbing someone's attention, Henry began to crazily bang his fists on the door, yelling out as loud as he could.

"Help me, _help!_ Let me outta here!" Now that someone was noticing that he wasn't coming out of his room, perhaps they could now hear his pleas.

Eileen stopped ringing the bell, peering into the peephole. Henry continued to bang his fists against the door, listening as she began to talk to herself.

"There's something going on in this room…,"

_Yeah! A whole lot of something! Get. Me. Out. Of. Here!_ Henry screamed in his head, keeping quiet as another voice and person entered his view, an older man that was slightly dressed up with an artsy tie. His gravely voice suggested that he wasn't very friendly though, even as he spoke to Eileen.

"What do you mean?"

Eileen turned her head and backed away from the door, recognizing the person Henry did not know.

"I heard weird noises coming from inside there…,"

"_Help!_" Henry cried. Weird noises may have not been his constant pleading, but it could've been and he still had to try.

"Hey Richard," Eileen continued, "Can you see anything from your window?"

"No," he replied somewhat curtly, "Everything looks pretty normal to me." The man, apparently Richard, approached the door as he asked Eileen a question.

"The guy who lives here…What's he like, anyway?"

Eileen put her hand to her face as she replied, thoughtful, "I know his name and face but…that's about it." Henry groaned. Suddenly, being shy and introverted was a very, very bad trait to possess.

"Well," Richard concluded, stepping away, "I'm gonna go call the super." He said, walking away. Eileen gave his door one last glance before following him.

"Yeah…good idea."

Henry gave one last smash of his fists against the door, slightly angered and desperate.

"Damn it…They can't hear me…,"


	5. Chapter 5

_Don't give me no pop, no pop, don't give me no tea, no tea, just gimmie that milk_

_Moo, moo, moo, moo, Wisconsin milk, moo, moo, moo, moo._

_WARNING: I like fire._

_

* * *

_**Silent Hill 4: Chapter 5**

Gritting his teeth, Henry winced through them once again as the peroxide cleaned his wound. He made his work quick as he rubbed his skin raw, making sure to get the blood and dirt off. When he was done, he used the gauze he had stashed in a med kit in his bathroom cupboard. (He hadn't used it before because he believed that he'd be finished with the monsters soon, and because in reality it wasn't that bad of a bite, especially compared to this one.) Wrapping his calf until his pant leg bulged from all the extra gauze, Henry popped a few painkillers before cleaning up the supplies he used. Throwing the bloody washcloth and torn towel from his other wound on the washing machine, he returned to the kitchen, standing in front of the refrigerator.

Cool air from the fridge swathed Henry's face as he bent down. He welcomed it, refreshed by the slight breeze. Wondering how the electricity cut off his TV but not his radio, fan and fridge, Henry took the chocolate milk out. Now empty, he closed the refrigerator door, turning the milk bottle in his hands.

When Jasper had said it, it seemed rather stupid. At the moment though, Henry realized just how thirsty he was. Probably hungry too, but the thirst overpowered it. He thought about drinking the chocolate milk right there and returning to Jasper empty handed, calmly explaining that he couldn't get anything for him. It certainly was tempting.

However Henry didn't think Jasper would fall for it and give him whatever item he had in his possession. Sighing, Henry forced the thirst away, climbing back into the hole before anything new showed up. The hole brought him back to the Wish House courtyard, putting him within sight of Jasper who had not moved an inch since he left. Grasping the milk, Henry climbed up the front porch steps, hesitating for a moment before giving it to Jasper.

As it turned out Henry didn't even need to put his hand out very far. When Jasper had seen what was in his hand, he snatched it up like no tomorrow, uncapping it and tipping it nearly vertical for only the first gulp. Henry backed off down the porch steps, giving him his space.

"Oh, man, that was _awesome!_" Jasper exclaimed, pulling a trowel out of his back pocket, "Here, take this…there's somethin' written on it." Suddenly ignoring Henry's presence, Jasper turned back to drinking the chocolate milk.

Trying not to focus too much on the excessive gulping noises Jasper made, Henry picked the trowel off of the porch where Jasper had tossed it. It was old, the blade of it inscribed with blood. Henry brought it to the light, reading the smeared writing.

_Opposite where the lake and house meet, inside the hand holding onto the ground._

Henry looked up and around. There was nothing he knew of this area that corresponded with the riddle on the spade, however there were two doors he had not yet explored. Leaving Jasper behind with his chocolate milk, Henry chose the corner on the other side of the Wish House building, entering it to find a room full of dogs and the black flying creatures. Henry stiffened, carefully walking forward. He desperately hoped that the old blood on his clothes would not arouse the dogs. Their hog noses were sniffing animatedly, and though they moved about a lot they had not yet made any motion to attack.

The flying creatures, however, were a different story. There were only two of them, but they flew around Henry's head, every now and then diving as if they were going to attack. Flinching and ducking whenever he could, he made sure that he walked the entire way to the gate imbedded in the rock wall. The flying creatures were restless though, and they didn't let Henry go through without attacking him a few times, twice on the shoulder and one annoying prick on the tip of his nose. Henry gasped and stopped, clapping his hands over his nose. Muttering incomprehensibly he entered the man-made cave, not wanting to kill the flying creatures for fear or agitating the dogs.

Taking his hands away he grimaced when he saw blood on his palms. Crossing his eyes only confirmed that his nose was bleeding, seeing a red bead of blood grow gradually with time. Henry wiped the small amount of blood with his sleeve, waiting until it had fully stopped before venturing further into the cave.

There was an arch leading to the outside straight ahead, placed in between a chain link fence and some questionable machinery. Big tanks of fluid sat off to the right, while iron beams and long-handled tools lay to the left. Up ahead pipes used for whatever reason twisted up from the ground. Henry glanced around. Was the cult involved in all of this junk? It was certainly a curious contraption, he didn't even have a beginning idea as to what any of it would be used for.

As he approached one of the liquid tanks to further examine it four more of the flying creatures dropped from the ceiling, buzzing angrily at his presence. Henry was about to smack them down before suddenly realizing that the steel pipe was still in the room that he had gotten attacked in. All he had with him was the gun, and it's not like he was an expert sharp-shooter. Still he pulled it out, aiming it at one of the hovering creatures—one of them that wasn't moving as much. Hoping he'd hit, he squeezed the trigger to release a bullet.

A creature did die, but it was one that was still curled up attached to the ceiling up ahead. It squealed unnaturally and fell to the floor in three different pieces. Henry flinched, physically motioning a 'whoops' on his part even if he had to eventually kill that one or not.

Out of nowhere one of the buzzing noises appeared right next to his ear, drowning out all other sound. Henry, acting much like he would if it was a massive horsefly, ducked and swung his hand into the creature, pistol-whipping it. It fell to the ground momentarily with a screech, alive until Henry stomped it into the dirt. Finding pistol-whipping surprisingly effective if sometimes difficult, he kept it up until the rest of the flying creatures were now nothing but muck on the floor. Rubbing his stinging nose ruefully, Henry left the cave, finding himself at a dead end—a lake.

Without even reading the sign Henry recognized the place, walking slowly up to the fence as he stared out onto the foggy water.

_This…It's that lake in Silent Hill, Toluca Lake. I haven't seen that place in a while…_ Henry reminisced about the last day he had been there a few years back. It was sunny, a rarity for Silent Hill. He was a lucky tourist on that day, and had a wonderful time snapping pictures of all sorts of photographs in and around the town. There was even a photo of the lake in his room, the sun dancing on the water. It hung over his bed, his prized picture from the trip. Henry gazed across the now darkened water. It was beautiful to him, but also sad somehow. He had heard of a few boating tragedies out on this lake, true stories that had turned into urban legends. But that wasn't the reason it looked sad to him. It was something else that he couldn't quite place at the moment.

Heavily sighing, Henry turned from the lake, directing his attention at a broken statue that once used to be some kind of goddess. In one hand it held a spear, the other hand missing whatever it was originally holding. From the way the fingers curled Henry guessed it was a shield of some sort.

Pausing for a moment to rest, he took the trowel out of his back pocket, reading the inscription again. He had found the lake it was talking about. It was true that he didn't exactly expect it to be Toluca Lake, but at least he had found one piece of the puzzle. It really told him though that he had gone in the complete opposite direction, but that was fine with Henry. Sitting with his back against the rock wall he let his mind wander as he gazed out onto the lake waters.

He thought of Cynthia and her bloody demise, of the demented subway and the policemen outside of the entrance, the intercepted radio he had heard. Thinking of his apartment, Henry wondered if Eileen and that man Richard had told everything to the superintendent yet, and if Frank had tried opening his room. Even better, perhaps Frank _successfully_ opened his room. Henry rolled his head to look at the hole placed in the rock cliff next to him. Debating about going back for a minute, Henry gazed at the red markings. It wasn't worth it too much. With the luck he's been having recently Frank wouldn't even be able to open his apartment up even with a wrecking team.

In the end Henry decided that his apartment could wait. Standing up and brushing himself uselessly off, he rolled his shoulders and left Toluca Lake behind him.

When he entered the room full of monsters, he took off running, and even with his bad leg managed to outrun the flying beasts and narrowly dodge the dogs. (Though 'narrowly dodging' was more like 'lucky that the dogs are blind.')

Wish House courtyard had not changed since he had left. Henry crossed it quickly so as to not grab Jasper's immediate attention if the possibility was there. Jasper was a bit too weird for his liking.

Before entering the one place he had yet to explore, Henry quickly entered the first area he had come from, grabbed the steel pipe before the dogs could stand up, and shut the door. He felt a lot better now that he could tuck the gun away safely into his waistband instead of relying on it for protection. As he had found out and expected, he was a terrible marksman.

Grimacing and groaning in frustration, Henry looked at the new area, just a little exhausted of finding dogs everywhere. It was getting a little tedious, if not dangerous. This area had the most dogs Henry had seen in one place together. He didn't even bother to count the size of the pack as he cautiously walked forward. Of course the goal had to be way past the dog nest. It was only natural.

Roaring loudly, a dog rammed itself into Henry's worst leg, making him yelp in response. This sent a chain reaction through the rest of the pack, as all the dogs began to push each other as they started to circle him. Whacking the closest one over the head with the steel pipe, Henry double booked it out of there, hurting himself as he slammed the gate open and closed. There was a dog that was half a second away from biting into his leg when he opened the gate. Instead of meat, the dog got a mouthful of iron.

Feeling a small sense of relief and triumph even through the renewed pain, Henry limped through the next empty area, passing under a white-lighted lamp post. The only oddity in this room was that some pine trees were wrapped in blood soaked bandages for no visible reason. Other than that it was empty, leaving Henry free to move onto the next area.

The first thing he noticed was that a big oak tree had been stripped of its bark on one side to make room for more strange red writing. Henry glanced at it for a moment before jumping back from what he saw at the base of the tree. Two arms came up from the dirt, seeming to claw at the ground. Staring at it, Henry relaxed after a while.

_Oh man, thank God._

They were just severely deformed, abnormal tree roots. Letting out a breath of relieved air, Henry was about to continue on until he remembered something. Taking the trowel out of his back pocket again, he re-read the phrase, glancing between the hand-root and the blade. As far as he could tell, this was as close as the hand on the ground as he could get. Crouching down, Henry began to dig up the earth just underneath the tree roots. Every now and then he'd look up, making sure the roots wouldn't magically come alive and grab him. Silly, he knew, but he wasn't going to take any chances.

After a short amount of time, a scrap of metal came up with a mound of earth. Henry stopped digging, shaking the dirt off of the metal to find a rusted and bloody key. The key had an inscription on it as well. It took a few minutes to read because it was so miniscule, but Henry could see it all without needing a microscope.

_The holder of this key will wander for eternity._

Without the inscribed sentence the key had an air of pessimism to it that Henry didn't like. Still he pocketed it, planning to return to the Wish House right away. He left the area and closed the gate.

Faltering for a moment, Henry wondered if his vision suddenly decided to go berserk on him. Everything was blurry and twitching, hurting his eyes and confusing his mind. Shrugging it off, he ran through the area into the next one. And the next one. It wasn't long after he entered the gate for a third time before Henry realized that he was simply running through the same room over and over again.

_The holder of this key will wander for eternity._

Henry stopped and back tracked to the previous room. His vision returned to normal, the key's prophecy as clear as day.

_Great._ He mumbled in his head, _Just great._

Sitting on the ground next to the stripped oak, Henry forced himself to think. There must be a way around this somehow, some sort of clue that he missed or forgot about. Patting his pockets, he pulled out everything, including the trowel and an unused box of bullets. He laid out everything in front of him, studying each one as if interrogating it for evidence. The spade did not hold anything for him even with its inscription. Grimly he looked on at the pile in front of him. After a while he shoved his hands into his pockets, discouraged.

Soon after though, he pulled one hand out, looking down in curiosity. There, in his palm, was a crumpled up note from a memo pad. Henry unfolded it, reading Jasper's poor handwriting once again about the nosy guy.

_If you bring the dug up key, you can't go back. Put it away somewhere before you return there._

Henry felt himself smile somewhat in victory. He had found what he was looking for. Silently he thanked Jasper for writing down what the nosy guy had said. Grabbing the bullets but leaving the trowel, Henry stood up. There was a gate that led deeper into the forest, and through the bars he could see a hole back to his apartment. Knowing what he had to do now, he moved through the gate, narrowly dodging the ghost that appeared through the wall. Entering the hole, Henry couldn't help but feel a sense of accomplishment.

--

When he woke up the first thing he did was open the trunk in his living room and put the rusted key in for safe keeping until he needed it again at the Wish House, assuming it was for the Wish house.

Though there were no new notes under his door he decided to check his peephole before leaving anyway, wondering if Eileen and Richard had gotten someone to come. What he saw was Richard's eyeball magnified in his view by the fish-eye effect of the glass. Henry sucked in a breath through his teeth, not quite expecting to see Richard again so soon. The aging man backed up, looking at his door from afar before cupping his hand over his eyes to peek in again. After this, he left without a word.

Despite everything else that was going on in his life at the moment, Henry felt a little stupid. Richard apparently lived on the other side of the apartment building, but Henry had no idea where or even who he was—or what he was doing over in this wing in the first place. His inexperience with his fellow tenants suddenly made him feel anti-social and unlikable. These thoughts themselves were even more stupid to him, not helping his current self-esteem.

Brushing off his personal whining, Henry assumed Eileen was back in her room but didn't bother to check. Instead it was a beeline for the hole in the bathroom. He entered it, anticipating the ghost on the other end waiting for him.

--

Hurting his bad leg again, Henry booked it out of the area before the ghost could emerge from the wall. Strangely eager, he kept running through each area, careful to avoid the dogs in the last one until he reached the Wish House courtyard, finally stopping to let his leg have a good rest. After a few minutes he took another trip back to his apartment strictly to grab the key. Nothing new was happening there anyways, so there was no reason to stay and dawdle.

Returning with the key, Henry crossed the Wish House courtyard, a sudden feeling of apprehension overcoming him. The feeling got stronger as he got closer to Jasper, climbing up the porch steps. He still had the bottle of chocolate milk pressed to his lips, though Henry suspected the milk was long gone. Still he didn't say anything to him, the feeling so strong Henry was frightened that it was telling him something very important and he was missing it. He put the key into the lock of the front door, finding that it fit perfectly. Jasper pulled the bottle of milk from his mouth to say one thing.

"You found it, huh?"

Henry answered the question by opening the door, waiting until Jasper went in first then following him.

The first thing that Henry observed when he entered the Wish House was that it looked like a natural disaster had ransacked the furniture. Chairs and tables were turned over everywhere, with lots of random papers and children's drawings strewn about around them. One scribbled note in particular caught Henry's eye, for reasons unknown.

_Have you found Alessa yet? How is Walter's progress coming along? Send me a report._

Keeping the names in mind, Henry left the note on the ground, turning around to see Jasper walk aimlessly around, a little jig in his step.

"I wonder what they did here?" he stuttered, looking around. Henry did the same, thinking about how Jasper mentioned the cult doing things to orphans. At the moment it didn't look malevolent, but every organization has its secrets, he supposed.

In the corner of the room diagonal from a door was what looked to be an altar that had been hastily tipped over. Books that used to sit upon the altar were thrown about, most of the pages ruined. Henry bent down, concentrating hard on reading the fragments he could and ignoring all other noises to help him focus.

_The Second Sign_

_And God said, 'Offer the Blood of the Ten Sinners and the White Oil. Be then released from the bonds of the flesh, and gain the Power of Heaven. From the Darkness and Void, bring forth Gloom, and gird thyself with Despair for the Giver of Wisdom.'_

_The Third Sign_

_And God said, 'Return to the Source through sin's Temptation. Under the Watchful eye of the demon, wander alone in the formless Chaos. Only then will the Four Atonements be in alignment._

Carefully Henry gathered up the book fragment, folding it and slowly slipping it into his pocket. He stood up to find Jasper gone and the once closed door ajar. The first thing he noticed was a placard on the door, yellow this time, with a baby drawn on it. The apprehension from before flooded Henry's senses as he removed the plate, seeing the word 'Source' engraved on the back of it.

The second thing he noticed was the smoke rising from the gap of the door, and the pained screams from within.

Henry didn't hesitate to enter the enclosed room, though he soon wished he hadn't.

Jasper was there, standing in front of another altar. In one hand he held what looked like a candle holder, but as he writhed about in pain it was hard to tell.

Flames engulfed him.

They rose up from his waist, licking up past his torso and head. Even though it was bright Henry could see the layers of skin on his arms and face constantly peeling away and charring, parts of it bubbling from the intense heat. The smell was terrible, like burning hair and meat multiplied a hundred times to create a hideous charring smell that infiltrated Henry's nostrils, burning them.

Jasper twisted his body, though whether it was on his command or natural movement from being burned Henry couldn't tell. He stepped forward, trying to see if there was anything he could do to help Jasper, but he had to back away. The heat of the fire was maddening, the billows of smoke stinging his eyes and mouth. Hearing the sound of the door shutting, Henry looked behind him to see that he had no means of escape. Jasper continued to scream, causing Henry to direct his attention back to him. The skin was done peeling away on some parts of him, and the fire had begun to burn away his muscle, sizzling as it did so. The skin that was still there had begun to melt; Jasper was losing his ears as they melted into his head and his nose was burning away, eaten by the flames.

On his chest Jasper traced a number with the candlestick that had previously been carved into him before: _17121_. There were no fingers on his hand anymore, just an indistinguishable lump of blackened flesh.

"I finally met him!" Jasper screamed, losing his stutter, "The one the nosy guy talked about! The _Devil!!_" Falling to his knees, Jasper ran out of his breath, dying amidst the fire that was now spreading to the altar. Henry watched in sickened horror as his body went limp but didn't fall—he was too charred and stiff now to limply collapse like a rag doll. His head lolled back with the flame, eyelids burned away. Even as Henry's vision blurred he could see Jasper's eyes, the whites of them standing out like stars in the night, expand then contract as they bubbled, right before they burst with liquid that hissed in the heat. Henry choked, unable to look away and unable to forget everything he saw. The last thing he remembered was Jasper's puffed tongue expanding too as it caught on fire outside of his mouth, the flames now licking away at the walls through the smoke.

The blazing brightness of the fire dimmed and faded away as Henry blacked out, tugged away by the familiar unseen force.


	6. Chapter 6

_Water Prison World! My glee. Taste it._

_In my game there is a glitch on the roof. The concrete structure in the middle of the water is not there. Simply not there. Nor are the steps and the water itself. The door, valve, sluice gates and railings are all still there, just sort of...suspended. The cage that contains the elevator on the way down the water prison with Eileen also doesn't exist, so it's kind of like: The elevator car. It's falling. Good luck surviving it._

_Also if you think this is exciting exploration, just wait until Apartment World! Taste the sarcastic glee, Goddammit.  
_

* * *

**Silent Hill 4: Chapter 6**

"A special news report,"

The woman reporter's voice, speaking from the radio that had been strangely turned up to full volume, jerked Henry awake. Ever so slowly he sat up, listening to the anchorwoman speak as his bruises protested in his movements.

"In a forest near Silent Hill the burned corpse of a 30-year-old male was discovered earlier today. The police have ruled it a homicide and are investigating. The numbers '17121' were reportedly carved into the man's body. Due to the marks on the victim, the police are investigating possible links to the Walter Sullivan case ten years ago…,"

The radio went off with a click, not interrupted by static for once. Henry stood up, taking in every word. He was surprised at a few things, for instance the fact that Jasper was actually a couple years older than him rather than younger. There was no doubt in his mind that the dead body was Jasper. If Cynthia had died here too then there was a thin connection between this world and the alternate reality.

The other thing that surprised him was the name mentioned; Walter Sullivan.

_Have you found Alessa yet? How's Walter's progress coming? Send me a report._

It shouldn't have been anything else but a mere coincidence, but as Henry was quickly finding out coincidences didn't exactly exist well between the two worlds. He stretched his tired limbs and turned around, gazing at the huge picture of Toluca Lake over his bed. In the foreground a thick forest covered the shores with a thin line of beach, while on the other side lay the sleepy town of Silent Hill, followed by low mountains in the foggy distance. Henry wondered if the forest world he had just exited was 'in' the picture hanging on his wall. His thoughts were interrupted when a faint ringing caused him to leave his room, recognizing it as the doorbell.

Before he reached the door a loud pounding by the person on the other side made the chains shake from the tremor. Heart pounding Henry put his eye to the peephole, seeing Frank's gray sweatshirt and thick neck. He was pounding continuously on the door, pausing for a moment to shout.

"This is the superintendent!" he ordered in his gravelly, tired voice, "Are you in there, Henry?"

Henry began beating his fists on the door again, wishing, just wishing that this time it would work, "Help me! There's something wrong with this room!" If anything else, he did _not_ want to face another alternate reality.

"_Help!_" he tried again, shouting and pounding harder, "Let me outta here!"

Frank knocked loudly again, putting his ear closer to the door, yelling into the room, "Is anybody home?"

Backing up, Frank looked down, fiddling with a ring of keys. Henry continued to bang his fists on the wood, the chains clattering together but never wavering from their strength.

"What's goin' on here…?" he breathed quietly.

Finding the key Frank stepped forward, putting it into the lock and turning. Henry's heart beat faster, wondering if he'd be saved within the next five minutes. Anticipation ate away at his stomach; Frank was taking far too long to just unlock his Goddamn door. Still Henry pounded, trying to see Frank out of the corner of the peephole.

New depths of distress Henry had not explored before swam about in his head as Frank backed up, glancing at the door before staring at his hand. His fists became raw as he still continued to slam the door, though it was more out of anguish now than before.

"That's strange…," Frank mumbled, "It's the right key."

_No…_

"I'm…I'm sure I heard something in there…," Frank continued, looking up and examining the door. His eyes, calm and sunken, looked on in suspicion, contemplating.

"Yeah, that sound…," Frank put his hand to his chin, nearly whispering now as if it was either forbidden or terrifying to say the words he was saying, even if it was only to himself, "It's the same one as back then..,"

_What?_

Henry pressed his face closer to the door, wanting to hear every last word Frank said. The superintendent stared at his door for a moment longer, lips pulled down into a thoughtful frown. After a while he pocketed the ring of keys, shaking his head. Pressing his body against the door Henry twisted his head, trying to see Frank leave, watching what was supposed to be his freedom walk wordlessly away.

_No, damn it!_ Henry relaxed his body, pulling away from the door and taking solemn note of a seventeenth handprint on the wall across from him. _Still trapped…_

He threw himself down on the living room sofa, limbs and head feeling heavy and distanced from the new wave of despair and the excessive intake of smoke from Jasper's corpse. His body needed the rest anyways—if he kept up like he was, he'd be surprised if he found a patch of skin _not_ bruised from all the beatings he was getting.

A picture of Ashfield hung over the sofa. He had received the very picture from the superintendent himself. Sunderland had given him the gift when he had by chance learned that Henry was interested in photography. That had been about a year and a half ago. Around the same time he was given the photo he had heard that Frank's son and daughter-in-law disappeared in Silent Hill a few years back. It was a reason for Frank to look sullen and slightly saddened all the time.

Henry sat up. Right there was another coincidence between Silent Hill and all the happenings that had been going on, even if it wasn't a direct reference. The photo he had taken of the old church in Silent Hill as well—was there a connection between the church and the cult running the orphanage?

Rubbing his temples Henry stood back up again from the brief rest. He was thinking too hard.

Some paranoia urged him to check on Eileen again, so he kneeled down in front of the carved hole, peering in. He only saw her for a second before she got up and ran out of the room, something important happening elsewhere. Henry sighed and stood back up, glancing at the pictures of himself. Honestly he didn't know why he kept them here, probably because his mother would make him if he didn't. His childhood wasn't extremely sentimental, he had very few friends due to his shyness, and even if they were close to him he had never had a 'best friend' so to speak. Not being well-known or popular was certainly another way he could be kept in here, especially when his occupation was 'photographer for hire.'

Having enough of his useless lamenting, Henry forced himself to at least be thankful that someone now noticed something wasn't quite right. Heading back into his room, he took the new Source placard from the end table and put it in the trunk. He had no idea why he was collecting such things, but something told him that they'd be incredibly useful later. However, every time he acquired one someone died. Secretly Henry didn't want any more plates even if they'd prove themselves worthy to him later.

Entering the bathroom, Henry saw how the hole was morphing, growing bigger and darker. From the depths of it he thought he could hear various children's voices, calling out to one another—or calling out to him. Pulled by his piqued curiosity, Henry climbed into the hole, sucked into the darkness harder than usual. This time, when he blacked out he felt as though it was more of a blow to the head rather than drifting into sleep.

--

Exhaling as he awoke, Henry groaned slightly, feeling as though he just fell and belly-flopped into a three foot deep pool. And he was wet from it too. He lay splayed out on rough, wet concrete, his position not unusual from normal slumber, though he felt like he was possessed by a full-body hangover. It had been a rough landing.

Henry slid his hands against the damp concrete, cringing at the touch of it. It wasn't just damp with water, there was _something else_ that made the substance thicker, not exactly like muck, just unnaturally viscous. The color wasn't that inviting either, Henry noticed as he lifted his cheek off of the ground. Pushing himself upward until he was only half-lying down, he took a look around him at the environment. He was in some sort of cylindrical chamber, with doors on one side and pipes on the other. There were no windows anywhere save for tiny slots to peek into the individual rooms. The walls were grated over in a dark and gloomy square pattern. Slowly he stood up, looking forward.

"Get me out of here…!" A voice in the not-so-far distance pleaded. The shape of the interior walls had the voice bounce all over, making Henry unsure of whether it was in front of him or behind.

"Get me _out!_" they said again, more desperately this time with genuine fear in their voice. Turning his body in different directions, Henry tried to decide where to go as the voice continued, "Get me outta here! Help! Get me the hell out of here! Help! _Helllp! Get me out of here!_" Henry, deciding that if he just going with the circle he'll come up to the owner of the voice eventually, so he chose a direction and ran down it, nearly trampling on a soggy, sloppily written note on the ground. Henry paused and knelt down, reading.

_Lucky! I finally escaped from the cell. I decided to take a careful look around this building. The scariest place was the first floor basement. There's a kitchen in the northeast, but next door in the northwest is a death chamber. To get in there, you have to punch in the right numbers. I don't know the numbers, and it was too dark to even see the panel, so I didn't go in._

As Henry dried the note off as best he could before pocketing it the voice cried out again, making him jump.

"He's gonna kill me…Walter's gonna kill me!" That name being mentioned again only seemed to tighten Henry's stomach rather than put it at ease with an answered speculation. Turning around to continue going forward, Henry saw in one of the doors was a man, face pressed against the little bars in the open slot. His fingers, pudgy and large, gripped the bars until they were raw and white. When he saw Henry he reached out his hand towards him, eyes wild and bulging.

"Get me out…," He pleaded, still yelling, "Get me the hell out of here!"

Henry flinched back just a little bit, making sure the man's thick arm didn't quite reach his face. When the man retracted his hand, still pleading endlessly, Henry stepped forward, trying the door to find it locked. He looked up at the man through the bars, slightly apologetic.

"Do you know where the key is?" He asked calmly. The man did not waver in his desperation, as he merely repeated his request in asking (more like demanding) Henry to help him get out of there. Looking left and right, Henry decided that his next order of business should be to check the other doors. Pulling away, he was just about to head off to explore when the man's big hand thrust forward again, making Henry stumble backwards from the sudden burst of his personal bubble.

"_Get me the hell out of here!_" He begged, sweating from the amount of energy he put into his voice. Henry mumbled something about finding a key before leaving, trusting that there wasn't any other way to talk through to the trapped man. Trying doors to find most of them broken, he tried to drown out the man's desperate voice that forever cried in the background.

One door opened, leading Henry into a small, confined room with an eyehole high up on the far wall. A note lay on the cold slab of a bed, with an empty noose hanging close beside it. The writing was once again sloppy, but simple and short.

_I'm sick of being watched._

As if on perfect cue, footsteps from the room beyond the eyehole echoed downwards, a shadow moving to block out most of the light. Henry stiffened, finding himself staring at the noose. What happened to make this the way it was? What _was_ this place?

Henry left the room, easily knowing the outcome of that situation. Able to enter the next room he did so, trying to keep his mind on finding a key.

Growing up from the floor, great bulbous stalks swayed back and forth, ever reaching upwards. Soon the ends popped and inflated, mimicking a toadstool that had not fully grown yet. Henry took a whack at them with the pipe, finding that they crumpled almost too easily to a simple swipe. After the three 'toadstools' had been disposed of, Henry found nothing else of interest in the disturbingly dirty room, leaving it to find the next door broken.

Bullets for his handgun were in the next room, as well as bright red writing on the wall. It had suffered from the extreme humidity of the air, leading to the letters leaking and dripping downwards, making it hard to read. It was still manageable, though it looked upsettingly like a child's handwriting.

_I'm being watched from the middle room._

The fact that Henry had been getting the same impression as well as the dripping letters did not make this world much more comforting, if it had ever been comforting at all. Slightly in a daze Henry left, taking dull note of what appeared to be multi-person shackles on the floor. He dearly hoped that whoever wrote what he was reading only had the handwriting and not the age of a child.

Double doors across from the man's room were now the only place Henry could go—all other doors were broken or locked. Pushing the rusty door open, he bunched up his shoulders as the door squeaked, hurting his ears.

"_Walter's gonna kill me!"_

Henry shut the door somewhat gratefully behind him, drowning out the desperate man. In front of him was a hole leading back to his apartment, doors to the sides leading elsewhere. A note posted on the wall next to the hole caught Henry's attention and he walked forward, fear rising in him as this handwriting was also quite sloppy. However it had a certain conformity to it that suggested an older mind behind the pen, calming Henry only somewhat.

_To get to the surveillance rooms in the middle of this complex, you have to use the corpse disposal chutes in the cells. However, on the first and second floors, these cells are locked. That's so the kids wouldn't discover them. So you have to get to the first floor from one of the cells on the third floor. I know how to do it, but it's really a pain. Also, the lights only work on the third floor._

Henry had a feeling that the note originally had more to it but the page ran out, and there was no second page attached. He pocketed the information along with the first note. There was something about this note that Henry did not like. The fact that it mentioned something about hiding corpse chutes from the kids. It was an out of place sentence to begin with, but with what Henry had seen already it made the sentence incredibly eerie.

Returning to his apartment wasn't of importance at the moment, so he tried the two doors to the sides, one of them locked and the other one leading to a winding staircase down into the lower levels. The hallways and floors of the staircase were sickening; they were damp and disgusting like above, but they were permanently stained parchment yellow and red by substances Henry would have not liked to think about. Plus he had heard noises down the hallway—noises he had heard before back in the subway. Wall demons inhabited this area. Henry took a few steps forward to test it, finding his suspicions to be true when a creature merged out of the wall, taking blind swipes at the air before melting into background again. The head appeared to be sightless even though it sensed him from far off. Backing up, Henry looked around for alternatives, not really excited about taking chances with the wall demons.

A red ladder to his right led directly down. Henry grabbed it and slid down, hearing the wall demons above appear and disappear in confusion. The ladder took him down one level, leaving him at another double door. Trying it, however, revealed that it was most likely locked from the other side. The only other direction was to keep going down. Cautious, Henry ventured forward, waiting for a wall demon to appear. He heard the noises, but saw nothing. Several more steps forward revealed to him that there were no wall demons at this point, and all the noises were coming from above through the not-quite-solid steps. He glanced upward for a moment before continuing on.

A glint of silver caught his eye on a step. Henry stooped down, examining it. It was a pendant on a silver chain, some sort of holy saint engraved on it. Warmth seemed to emit from the metal, a soft sort of grace that seemed to faintly dull his pain. Pocketing it, Henry came to a door at the end of the staircase. Though it was filthy and horrible, Henry turned the knob, suddenly becoming _very_ conscious about the hygiene of this place and himself.

Lit by unseen lights from the central area of this enormous room, Henry stared in awe at the massive gears and wheels at the center of the floor. They weren't in operation, but Henry could only imagine what they could do or generate when at full power. Descending the last of the steps he approached the gears to get a better look at them. They were old but not rusty, having the chance to still be fully operational.

An old water-stained sign was to Henry's right, a key hanging down from a hook at its top. Taking the key he squinted his eyes in the dimness, struggling to read everything that was severely damaged from water.

_To turn on the lights in the third floor cells, turn this water wheel. Remember that the water must flow in the direction of the waterwheel. Of course, you also have to open the sluice gate on the roof._

There was something else he thought was written below it, but he must've been mistaken. Either way he didn't have time to look, because four more of the flying creatures emerged from the depths of the hole where the gears were. Henry whacked the pipe at each of them, making them fall to the ground where he could stomp them properly. Walking around the room Henry spotted a hole on the other side. Before he reached the other side of the room though Henry decided to enter a door marked 'Generator Room'. The door had been set over a connection between the gears and the generator that raised the floor a considerable height. It wasn't well thought out construction, but then even though it was functional this whole building wasn't set up as a luxury office. Hotel. Whatever they used this place for.

A huge old-fashioned electronic generator forced Henry to re-map his steps until he reached the back of the room where a gargantuan door disallowed him to continue. He stepped back a few paces and looked up at it, awed. It must've been fifteen feet high, maybe even twenty if Henry was guessing right. He alone could barely budge the door—it was made of metal and had the same mark on it in red as the other locked door in the forest graveyard. Even in his wildest imaginations Henry couldn't come up with a purpose for having a door of that size in any place, even a freight warehouse. This door was designed like any household door, not like a garage or warehouse door. Henry, confused, tried to answer this question in his head as he left the generator room, continuing along the full circle of the basement.

Once again he didn't have a long time to concentrate as four more creatures rose up like bats from the water wheel's hole. Getting tired of the constant annoyance Henry beat them down quickly, most of them falling to the floor but someof them just falling to the wall put up around the hole. Giving them extra hits with the pipe, he waited a while to make sure they were all dead before passing the hole, once again deciding he didn't need it now. He left the water room. From the faint 'up' carved into the handle of the key he acquired and from the sign's notice he had copied down on the back of a different note, he figured his next destination was to go to the roof. Why exactly Henry didn't know or want to think about. It was a way to keep moving and that's what he really needed. If he stopped he'd start thinking about things he'd rather not dwell on.

Taking the red ladders upwards, he skipped both the stairs and the wall demons. Back in the room with the locked door, he used the exit key on it, finding it fit perfectly. He slipped the key back into his chest pocket, just in case he needed it later for other floors and rooms. Opening the door Henry had to pause a moment, blinded by white light.

As soon as his eyes got used to the foggy brightness of outside he shivered in the freezing wind. It didn't blow hard nor was it in his eyes, but the breeze was just enough to bring the frosty air to him, biting through his thin shirts. If he found another hole while moving forward he'd enter it and take a coat out. It was somewhat nice that he could see clearly though, the light showed him that he was at a place nothing more than a great concrete pillar with questionably weak grated pathways on the outside of it. The fog and clouds appeared far off enough that they didn't affect his sight whatsoever right in front of him, though they blocked vision to the world outside of the concrete.

Shivering Henry kept his act together, running forward on the grating. He was moving upwards now, to the second and third floors, eventually to the roof. Looking upward proved of little help to how far he had to go, and in doing so he nearly walked clear off the edge. Catching himself before he plummeted he backed away to the concrete wall, suddenly growing a slight fear of heights after he realized he could not see the bottom. A hot rush flowed upwards into his brain at the extreme close call, warming him somewhat. Breathing hard he kept walking, keeping his shoulders against the wall. Doing this had him almost run face first into another flying creature who was hanging on the wall. Getting a face full of its powdery yet leathery wings, Henry backed up, spitting the feeling off. He looked up to see it and a few of its friends buzzing around, now angry. In the light Henry could see that they resembled mutated moths. Their wings were bat-like while their body was some sort of demonic insect. Their mouths weren't friendly looking either—they were thin, sharp needles that could easily penetrate human skin. Henry saw them and groaned, wishing he had not seen what they had been sticking into his flesh the past few times he had gotten hit.

Regardless he killed them all, only getting hit once in the back of the neck. He was getting good at fending off the moths at least. Some of them fell into the white abyss when he had hit them. He left them, figuring that they wouldn't be coming back after a fall like that.

The second floor greeted him with double doors, allowing Henry access to the warmer but still damp inside. He found himself in a room very similar to the first floor, designed exactly with doors leading to the inside rooms. Like the first floor a lot of the doors were broken. He tried peeking into them but with the lack of light couldn't see anything of importance.

Unlike the first floor, however, the walls, ceilings, and floors were partially covered with white slugs of all sizes. Some were bigger than both of Henry's feet combined, some were small enough that he could fit him in the palm of his hand. He didn't worry about them too much—if they got in his way he'd simply stomp them and move on, taking no chances on if they could hurt him or not.

Moving along the circle in a similar fashion to the floor below, Henry checked the doors as he walked, taking care of the occasional slug or group of 'toadstools' as he walked. The enemies here weren't as troublesome as the dogs, nor were they hard to defeat. If anything else they were just annoying. Henry was grateful that they weren't difficult though, knowing very well that the world could easily turn on him here, bringing up some fearsome beast that'd trouble him through the rest of his journey here.

Trying hard not to think about it Henry found a door that was open and entered it. On the only table in the room lay a diary, open and flipped to the latest entry. Squinting, Henry's stomach twisted when he saw that it was yet again a child's handwriting. Educated, for sure, but still a child.

_I've been watching the surveillance room's peephole the whole time, and sometimes he's there. I can tell 'cause I see a shadow move or hear his footsteps._

Henry glanced up at the peephole, the light from inside giving the only illumination in the room. Feeling a little uneasy, he returned to the main hallway, looking for more open doors.

In the next room he found bottles full of black powder. Some of it was wet, causing the powder to form a sludge that reminded him of the way ghosts formed on walls. He picked one up, seeing that the label on it had previously been removed. There wasn't a strong stench to it, but it was a distinct burned smell, like some sort of tar. Wrinkling his nose Henry set the bottle down. None of the containers were quite full, indicating usage. The thing that pricked at Henry's subconscious was the fact that he didn't believe they weren't full because they were using them for the purpose needed. Leaving the room Henry was met with brief, wet pain as a slug from above landed on his shoulder, sliding down his back. They had sharp teeth underneath them, which dug into his skin, tearing at the fabric of his shirt as the slug slid down. Stomping it, he continued on.

The last room was open. Henry entered it and stiffened, smelling the undeniable stink of old urine. Keeping his nose wrinkled, he looked up, finding clothes strung on a rope that crossed the room. They were disturbingly similar to prison garb, pale blue pants and a shirt made out of extremely cheap cotton. The pants were stained, though it was obvious someone had tried to clean it up at least—but with limited supplies.

A note on the wall grabbed his attention. To him it still looked like a kid's writing, and as he read the note he began to understand what exactly was happening here—or at least part of it.

_I peed in my pants. I gotta wash them so nobody finds out. Oh, I just saw a shadow. I think someone saw me._

Even the sentence structure of the note sounded like it came from a kid. Stepping backwards, Henry left the room, grateful to not smell the old urine anymore. As he left the second floor behind for the third floor, he began to feel a rock form in his belly, sinking down. It was the same kind of rock that appeared when he had been studying about the Holocaust in history class years ago. Feeling sluggish, he lost some of his urge to keep moving forward as, entering the third floor, he discovered that he'd be learning more and more about the happenings of this place as he continued onwards.

The only difference between the third floor and the last two was that every door on this floor was unlocked. Every room had a certain trait about it that put it apart from the others. One, for instance, had clothes lying on the floor. There was no stench and no stain, just the dirty clothes. Henry left before he could think about the possible answers. In the hallway, he thought he saw something up ahead, something disturbing and new. Entering the next room before anything could happen, he heard the beginning of a word uttered down the hallway. Making sure the door was firmly shut; Henry defeated the group of toadstools in this room quickly, finding a diary and a note.

_We had beef stew yesterday. In the cafeteria, I heard there's a death chamber behind the kitchen, and they take meat straight from the dead people and cook it. That really scared me._

Henry closed the diary. Though he had next to no interest in reading the other entries, he took the small, damp book and put it in his front pocket with the exit key. It fit perfectly. He turned to the note on the bed, sitting down while reading it to give his legs a rest.

_I'm in trouble. I stood in front of the surveillance room and yelled as loud as I could, but nobody came out._

Footsteps from the surveillance room startled Henry, making him jump. Leaving the dirty note where it was, he exited the room. At this point there was no denying that there were actual children in this place—and that there was little difference in appearance between when the children were here and now.

"_Receiver…,_"

Henry turned and stiffened, seeing one pasty white finger from an elongated hand pointing straight at him. Like a stork, a creature of indescribable traits stood on one hand, the only limbs to its name. The other hand pointed as it hoarsely whispered the word 'receiver' over and over. Its body was covered with some sort of crow-feathered cloak, filthy and rotting. There were two heads nestled side by side each other, with the faces of sleeping infants. They honestly looked like porcelain masks more than actual skin, though the tight lips moved when they said 'receiver.' Other than that it stood as still as a statue. Henry mimicked its movement, somewhat afraid to move. Its body structure discouraged him on using the steel pipe on it. Ever so slowly Henry set the pipe down, keeping his eyes on the double headed monster. Straightening back up, he reached to find the handgun tucked in his waistband. Pulling it out he aimed it warily at the monster switching the safety off.

At the sound of the safety's click the monster put its other hand down. Before Henry could see it coming it started to lope forward at an alarming pace. Fingers working on pure reflex he started pumping bullets into the creature. At the fourth bullet Henry was wondering if the thing could actually die. It was nearly upon him, only flinching slightly at the force of his bullets. Biting his lip Henry shot the gun one more time, shattering the left face. The twin-faced creature let out a horrifyingly ugly screech, causing Henry to recoil and cover his ears. Then it fell with a moan, twitching in pain. Henry stomped the undamaged head, silencing it.

Sweating as he picked up the pipe, he entered the door it was standing outside of, nearly falling straight into a hole set in the middle of the floor. Backing up, he stared at it, confused. Seeing nothing else in the room as it must've been unoccupied, Henry left, nearly being attacked again by a falling slug. Ignoring it as they just seemed to constantly spawn, he entered the next room, nearly getting hit by wall demons.

Growling in frustration Henry backed himself into a corner, avoiding the monsters. All of the sudden this world wasn't giving him a break. More red writing on the wall caught his attention. He read it from where he was standing, not willing to get close a wall demon or waste bullets on it.

_I wanna hide but I can't hide_.

Henry looked up at the peephole, feeling the sickness of having someone or something watching you always. No kidding. He left.

Down the hallway was another twin-face, though it was far enough away that it wouldn't do anything. Henry entered the next possible door, prolonging the fight. Reading the note on the table, Henry looked at the bed.

_Now it will look like I'm sleeping. Huh? Were those footsteps? I wonder if they saw me._

Clothes were placed perfectly on the bed, as if to mimic a human being. It was poorly done and the shirt was open, revealing no flesh underneath. It was a pretty sad, obvious gimmick, but one had to keep in mind that this was the work of a mere child. Henry stared at the clothes that were as empty as his room. Only a _very_ young child would believe that such a trick would work. Stomach gurgling though definitely not from hunger, Henry cocked his gun, ready to put the pipe aside again and go out into the hallway to kill the twin face outside.

"_Receiver…,_" It whispered softly in a low voice. Henry hardened his features, trying to feel nothing. It was getting easier and easier to kill the monsters, as long as he kept doing it. As soon as the twin face lowered the hand it was pointing with, Henry began to shoot, easily hitting a bigger target. Loping towards him, the creature prepared to attack as Henry put three shots into it. He could only fire three, because after that he was firing blanks. Henry stood in a stupor, sheer horror running through him. He was brought back to the real world when the creature emitted a low growling sound and lunged, using its body as a battering ram into Henry's torso.

Crying in pain through gritted teeth, Henry was thrown back, rolling on the filthy concrete floor. In the midst of his pain he steamrolled a slug or two, getting blood and gunk all over his back. The twin faced creature lied face down on the concrete, taking its time in getting back up as it only had two limbs. Groaning, Henry acted fast. The pipe was in the room he was just in, and now that room was blocked by the twin face who was slowly standing up. Patting his pockets madly, a streak of relieved joy that may have been premature lit Henry's face up. Taking the magazine out of his pocket, Henry took himself on a crash course of learning how to reload a gun. It was messy and most likely poorly done, but he reloaded it just as the twin face stood up.

Aiming quickly Henry shot it twice more, forcing it to stay down out of pain this time. Standing up, he stomped the two heads, feeling the porcelain faces crack from the back of its skull. After he was finished he stood there over the dead body, twisting his body to see his back, covered with red and black slug guts. Sighing, he lifted up both his shirts to examine his stomach. Already he could see the beginnings of a nasty bruise forming from his belly button to the edge of his sternum.

_Ouch…_He muttered to himself in his head as he stepped over the corpse, _Let's not do that again._ Henry would very well be completely satisfied if he never had to see those twin faces again.

Stepping into the next room after reuniting with the pipe he caught himself before he fell into another hole. The unsettling amount of blood soaking the makeshift bed in the corner gave Henry an idea for what the holes were used for. His mind flashed to the kids, and an unbearable amount of sympathy went out to them wherever they were, even if they weren't alive. This was why he had a hard time handling stuff about the Holocaust—the intense sympathy and sadness he felt every time someone brought it up.

The next room brought another hole, but with less blood on the bed. Henry didn't even enter the room completely when he saw the hole, knowing that there was nothing else in there. The room after was much more interesting. There were books scattered everywhere—open, closed, stacked, broken, on the floor or on the bed. Henry didn't take the time to read any of them, but from snippets that he could read from at a glance, they looked like some heavily religious stuff. Finding nothing else Henry left the room and ultimately the third floor.

Prepared for the blast of cold this time Henry turned to the red ladder to the side of the double doors, using it to ascend to the roof door. He wondered why he didn't think of that earlier. It was faster even though the metal was almost freezing to his hands. Gloves too. He should bring gloves back the next time he returns to his apartment.

The roof held what appeared to be a giant water tank, with stairs leading up to a door with another red mark on it. Finding that one locked from the other side, Henry walked to the back of the concrete tank, seeing closed sluice gates against a pool of water. More stairs in the back led up to a valve. Figuring it was worth a go, Henry turned the valve, struggling a bit to get it unstuck from its slightly rusted position. After he got it moving it turned freely albeit squeakily. Soon the sluice gates were open as far as they could go and Henry stopped, stepping back to look at his handiwork. Sheltered from the breeze he was only slightly chilled on the roof. It was actually a pleasant feeling. Henry sat on the edge of the low wall protecting the water, resting for a bit.

He now sat on top of a watery prison for children.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Edit: Chapter is now revised, thank GOD. I don't know what I was doing when I was writing this, but it obviously wasn't thinking.**_

_Something I noticed while writing: The note spelled the color gray like "grey." I spell it "gray" here because if I spell it like "grey"..._

_I start thinking about Greymon._

_Do not be fooled: most of this chapter is NOTES UP THE WAZOO. Water Prison World. TASTE. MY. GLEE._

* * *

**Silent Hill 4: Chapter 7**

Various body fluids Henry would rather not name spread everywhere as his shoe smashed a slug into the concrete after it had nearly fallen on him when he re-entered the third floor. Through the notes he had collected and copied he had learned that he needed to be in the first basement, where the kitchen and the infamous 'death chamber' were. He turned left down the corridor, finding the first room with a hole in it. If his mental map served him any use, this hold lined up with two more on the lower floors. (Or so he supposed, since the other holes were behind locked doors.)

The hydroelectricity had granted him a bright white light that hummed softly above. Even so the hole was shrouded in darkness. If he turned his head he could barely see the floors of the rooms below, illuminated from above. Henry couldn't see well enough to accurately predict the height of the fall. His stomach gurgled, unnerved. Hesitating just beforehand, he took a deep breath, clutched the steel pipe, and jumped.

It was a small miracle he didn't break anything when he landed on the concrete three floors below. His ankle however rang with pain as he landed funny, twisting it in the wrong direction. No sooner had he cried out that he realized he was not alone. A super-charged baby scream echoed off the walls, viciously piercing his senses. Blinking rapidly to regain control, he watched as two twin-faced monsters ran frantically about; birds disturbed from their nest.

Synchronized, they both broke off from their dance. One picked a pasty white hand off of the ground, raising it high and slamming it down on Henry's head. Crumpling to his knees he established enough sense that he began to fumble for his gun, having dropped the pipe from the previous blow.

The second monster's hand slapped down on the concrete just in front of him, missing its target completely. Pulling the gun out of his waistband he struggled to block the infernal screams out, trying to concentrate and aim properly.

Another hand slammed down, cold and hard against his shoulder. Putting the pain aside to the best of his ability, Henry made a quick decision to shoot without aiming. Keeping one eye open despite the pain, Henry watched as the two beasts flinched, the bullets alternating in hitting them. Sooner than he liked he was firing blanks again. The two creatures stared, all four heads looking directly at him. Heart beating loudly he was suddenly very scared that he had done next to nothing to protect himself.

The monster closest to him leaned forward, the porcelain faces creased back in an infant's expression of immense sadness. Inches away from his own face, the mouths opened, showing no throat. They let out a sort of sighing cry that was low with the sound of defeat. No breath from the mouths brushed Henry's face like one would expect. Instead the monster collapsed, almost falling on his legs. Henry paused for a moment before he jerked forward, standing up. In a movement that was quickly becoming reflex to him, he stepped on the twin face's heads to make sure they were dead, picking up the pipe.

Loping forward, the last twin face made as if to ram into Henry. Gripping the steel pipe, he gave the greatest swing he could, stepping to the side to let the twin face run itself right into his pipe. Following through with the swing, he was rewarded at the sound of a resounding crack as the pipe smashed into both faces. Blood and shattered pieces scattered everywhere as the creature fell, what was left of its porcelain mask wrinkled in pain. Henry stomped it and stood over both corpses, breathing heavily.

Images sat smoldering in Henry's brain. The infant faces were creased as though they were bawling when hit, and even though a monstrous sound emitted from them as they died it still looked as though it was a child Henry had killed. Directing his eyes away from the dead bodies he looked upwards, seeing bent showerheads, pipes, and the hole he had dropped down from. Shuddering once more as he was reminded of the Holocaust from the showers and himself, he left the room.

A pair of double doors in front of him were locked from the other side, barring his entry. The other pair of doors led to the basement stairs. Leaving this unlocked for future use if he needed it, he turned around and followed the grime-bordered hallway to a ladder set in the middle of a circular chamber. Climbing it, Henry found himself in a room mirroring the cylindrical tendency of the entire building, peepholes lining the wall. A desk and swivel chair were pushed up between two peepholes, a notebook left on the table. Forcing himself to read the diary, Henry tried not to feel sick to his stomach.

_This place continues to deteriorate. The doors to a number of cells no longer open. As a result, the kids inside can no longer go outside. But the less they know about that, the better. I can't open the doors, but from this room I can watch them get more and more emaciated each day. With no food and never showering themselves, they turn into smelly little gray lumps in there. Following the suggestion of an engineer, we've disposed of the corpses by digging a hole below the cells. Since each floor of this building can be rotated independently, we can dispose of the bodies without the others noticing by aligning each cell with a body in it vertically._

_P.S. Chief, I bet you're just dying to see the interrogation room behind the kitchen. I understand your feelings, but have you noticed? There are three rooms with bloody beds. One is on the first floor, one is on the second floor, and one is on the third floor. If you line those three rooms up, then it's "bingo."_

Sickened, Henry tore the page out from the book and folded it up, putting it with the child's diary. The death room, or 'interrogation' room as the adults were calling it, was apparently the place he needed to get to. Before he looked in the peepholes, Henry climbed the ladder to the second floor, wanting to see if he could gather more information. On a similarly placed desk he found another book with a guard's handwriting. Sitting down in the damp chair, he flipped through the pages, reading.

_To keep a close eye on the kids, it's important to keep the cells well lit. The lights on the third floor were originally bought as searchlights. As a precaution against a blackout, they were set up to run on a private generator. There's a hydroelectric generator in the basement. To light up the first and second floors, use the corpse disposal chutes. Since each floor of this building can be rotated, you can light up any of the cells by matching up the holes. Repeating this periodically is an effective way to keep the kids fearful and well-behaved._

_P.S. Chief, if you turn the handle in the middle of this room, you can easily rotate the cells. You can't rotate the first floor, so align the second and third floors with the first floor cell that has the blood-stained bed. By the way, if you use the peephole in this room, it's easy to make sure you're doing it right. Give it a try. Also, please don't forget to open the sluice gate on the roof. Much appreciated, Chief!_

This note made him grimace more than feel sick, and Henry couldn't help but crumple the pages up a little bit as he tore them out and stored them with the others. It was easy to tell this guard care as much for the kids, especially if he didn't have to hurt anybody directly. Feeling anything but eased, Henry climbed up to the final floor, finding a simple memo taped to the wall.

_The secret number for getting through the door in the back of the kitchen this month is "0302." Thanks for your cooperation._

Henry folded the sticky side of the tape over before carefully stowing it away in his now full front pocket. When he got back to the apartment he needed to put some things away in the scrap book and the trunk.

_And find some more bullets._ He added grimly in his head. Sighing, he tried not to think of the children in these conditions too much as he descended the ladder all the way to the first floor. Taking a piece of paper and a pen from the open notebook, Henry peeked into the peepholes, drawing a crude map of the first floor. To the very left of the desk was the room with the bloody bed with a hole in the middle of the floor. It wasn't lit but he could definitely see the dark liquid soaking the mattress. Having no desire to look into any of the other rooms, he ascended to the second floor, once again mapping it out on the paper he took. Finding the bloody bed, Henry sat down before going up to the third floor. Marking where the first bed was on the second floor map, he counted the rooms over from the second bed. Guessing that each rotation of the wheel meant moving one room over, he stood up at the wheel and turned it.

Four turns later he stopped, grateful to not hear the rusted squealing anymore. Finding the peephole where the first bloody bed was a floor below, he checked the position. Seeing that he had turned the floors correctly by the sight of a bloody mattress, he climbed up to the third floor. Once again drawing out a rough map, Henry peeked into the rooms, finding the blood-stained mattress fairly quickly. Glad that it was simplistic, Henry turned the third floor twice to the right, aligning the bed perfectly with the others.

Keeping his crude drawings close at hand for other needs, Henry climbed down the ladder all the way to the first basement, turning around to see a kneeling man's back. From what Henry could tell it was the one who was locked up on the first floor, terrified that a man named Walter would kill him. Somehow he must've broke free, either by someone else or even by turning the floors.

He was whispering frantically to someone covered up by his bulk. Henry craned his neck to the side to see the very same boy dressed in hand-me-down clothes from the forest world. The large man leaned forward, and though he could've easily intimidated the kid, the pattern of his unidentifiable whispers along with body language clearly said that he was terrified of the boy.

"Let me stay in there…," he cried to the kid as if he could control things. His mind had obviously changed since he had been released from the cell.

"_Please!_" He whispered, ducking his head down, becoming inaudible at some points, "Let me out of here…die in here…," Henry started approaching the two as the little kid turned and started to walk away despite the large man's desperate voice. When the boy had opened the door to the stairwell, he tapped the man on the shoulder lightly. The man snorted in surprise and lurched forward, twisting back to see Henry, the same wild desperation on his face. Slightly bent over still, Henry motioned to the door, asking him a question.

"Who is that boy?" The man, panting, flashed a glance at the door and back at him before he finished, "And who are you?"

"His name's Walter…Walter Sullivan," he answered without leaving a breath in between after Henry had finished talking. Letting out a grunt as he stood up, the man turned to him, his belly stretching out in his uniform shirt and sweatpants. Old age was catching up with him.

"I used to work at the orphanage, watching the kids…I'm Andrew DeSalvo." Andrew didn't look Henry directly in the eye as he spoke. Making odd hand gestures as he talked, he clearly indicated nervousness. Henry tipped his head to the side gently as he listened, hearing the fear and the slight insanity in Andrew's voice.

"They tried to make it seem like an orphanage, but according to that town's Holy Scriptures, it was actually the center of their religion…That kid, Walter…He was really into that mumbo jumbo, especially that Descent of the Holy Mother business…," Andrew's voice began to slur as he continued, raising a hand to his temples as he started to walk away, crazed.

"Scary…My God, Oh…oh, my God…," Drunkenly he stumbled off to the stairwell door, leaving Henry there watching, befuddled. Putting a hand to his stomach, Henry tried to cease its growling and sickness all at once. If he had kids in the coming future, he'd stay and look after them _himself_ if he could before he sent them off to a daycare lest it resembled this one. Such a thought should be ridiculous, but Henry was thoroughly terrified.

He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he barely noticed the vast amount of white tentacles sprouting from the ground. Dealing with them was as easy at the toadstools, so it didn't take Henry long to make sure they were all gone. Afterwards he headed out the stairway door himself, seeing no sign of Andrew or the kid named Walter Sullivan.

Finding the red ladder to the side of the door Henry climbed it, deciding that he needed a break. When he arrived just outside of the first floor's hallway, he turned and entered the hole, heading back to his apartment. He hurt all over, his pockets were getting full from so many notes, and he wanted to temporarily escape from the sub-Holocaust tendency of the water prison. Hell, even climbing into the hole hurt from the massive bruise on his stomach. He was grateful when the gentle pull took him away, making him graciously black out.

--

One by one he took the notes out of his pockets, smoothing them out and carefully placing them in his scrapbook on his desk. He did not reread any of them save for the memo about the secret number. Saving that one for later, he put it in his pocket. Closing the scrapbook carefully along with the other notes he had gathered, he left his bedroom to be met with blaring static. Frozen for a moment, Henry cautiously entered the living room, finding his TV turned on, the screen a complete blur of snow.

Confused, he pushed the power button to no avail. Even by remote and plug he couldn't turn the machine off. Perplexed, Henry gave up after several attempts, letting the static blend into the background. It was very strange. His ceiling fan, refrigerator, lights and radio all still worked while his TV, phone, and clock were dead; the clock reading exactly 10:06. Except for now, that was how Henry had lived the previous five days of his life.

A piece of red paper had been slipped under his door again. Leaving the TV, he crouched down and picked it up, walking to his bedroom as he read it.

_Lately I've been feeling like my life is in serious danger. I've been through a lot in my life, but I've never felt this kind of pure, animal fear. In case something happens to me, I've decided to write down what I've learned for whoever you are that's living in the apartment now. I've been investigating the mass murder that took place seven years in which ten people were killed in ten days. They were killed in a variety of ways, but the one thing they had in common was that each corpse had the following numbers, in order of their deaths, carved into them: 01121, 02121, 03121, 04121, 05121, 06121, 07121, 08121, 09121, 10121…The name of their killer…it was carved in as well…_

_His name was…Walter Sullivan._

_April 4_

Henry placed the piece of paper next to the other red ones in his scrapbook. _The little kid? _It couldn't be him. He was too young, and the name could only be another coincidence—if there were such things anymore. Going back into the front hallway Henry looked through the peephole. Frank was out there, arguing with another unseen tenant. Leaving that business alone, he decided to check on Eileen before returning.

All he saw of her were her legs as she was lying on her bed. Part of him had a thought that made his heart skip a beat, and he stayed, watching her until she rolled onto her other side, confirming the fact that she was simply napping and _not_ hurt or dying. Scolding himself in his head for being so paranoid, Henry dropped the saint medallion off in his trunk before returning to the bathroom, steel pipe and empty gun the only things in his inventory. Climbing through the hole he wondered what would become of him at the bottom of the three blood-stained beds.

--

Somewhat reluctantly Henry stepped outside of the prison into the cold. Forcing his body to get used to it, he quickly gripped the red ladders that precariously clung to the side of the building, scuttling up them as fast as he could all the way to the third floor, ignoring any moths that had come to investigate and attack him.

Entering the third floor, Henry avoided the twin face corpses in disgust; the slugs that were once on the walls were now burrowed into the flesh, making some sort of home in the dead bodies. Taking out his crudely drawn maps, he counted the rooms until he came to the one with the blood-stained mattress. Gathering up courage, he jumped in, trying not to notice the blood dripping down the side of the holes.

Landing awkwardly again, Henry cried out and stumbled forward as his injured ankle became even more twisted. Grabbing the edge of a grimy table in front of him, he gritted his teeth until the pain ebbed away little by little. As he waited for it to disappear he looked around the room, seeing kitchen appliances and supplies on countertops and tables. Taking note of the white tentacles rising up at the corner of his eye, Henry saw that the door that wasn't blocked by monsters had a keypad and a placard on it.

Pushing away from the table Henry stared at it, his subconscious knowing what was behind the door. Deciding to prolong going into that room, he turned, killing the white tentacles easily with the steel pipe and exiting the kitchen through the other door, ending up in a cafeteria.

The tables and benches were pushed about, blocking pathways and imitating chaos. Disposing of the tentacles in this room, Henry explored, finding nothing but dirty trays with rotting food on them. Unlocking the door that led to the chamber underneath the surveillance room, Henry turned around, reluctantly heading back into the kitchen. There were no items or notes left for him in either room. The only place for him to go was the door with the placard.

His fingers curled gingerly around the bronze plate depicting an eye. 'Watchfulness' was engraved on the back. Gulping, he tucked the plate under his arm as he took out the number code note. Punching in '0302', Henry gulped as he heard the click of the door being unlocked. Beyond this door was the infamous 'death chamber.' Judging by the placard on the door, it was going to live up to its name.

The very first thing Henry noticed was a rusty ripsaw blade hanging perilously by a chain from the ceiling. Some of the teeth of it had been stained, and it wasn't that hard to figure out what it had been soiled with. Hooks hung from the ceiling as well, sharp and pointed, items that should normally be in a slaughterhouse, not any sort of prison or orphanage at all. Racks hung down from more chains—a medieval torture device used to stretch the limbs out until joints were dislocated, ligaments torn, or even worse. Henry gasped, quickly drawing in a breath and holding it. The room smelled _awful_. It was quite similar to his fridge in his nightmare, only this was more real, fresher, and stronger.

Ever so slowly he stepped forward onto the grated bridge from the concrete slab to the pillar in the middle of the room. The floor of the room was full of shallow water, discolored by scum, grime, and something else. Walking forward he followed the thin trail of red in the water until, reaching the slab in the middle of the room, he could see where it led to.

Andrew DeSalvo floated face-up in the water, his diluted blood surrounding him. In his belly numbers were carved, bleeding through his shirt. Henry stared at them in pity, watching as waves from the water splashed on him.

_18121_.

At least, Henry noticed, his expression wasn't desperately crazed anymore. In fact, he looked like he was somewhat at peace.

Henry's vision blurred as he continued to stare at Andrew's dead body, and as he blacked out he felt the tug bring him backwards, all the way to his apartment.

--

Waking up, Henry noticed that it was now dusk outside of his window. Turning to his closet he forced his tired limbs to get up, noticing that his apartment was darker, and not because it was sunset. Stretching his limbs he grimaced as his torso protested in pain. Cradling his bruised stomach carefully he left his bedroom.

A curious noise from his bathroom met him. It sounded like the constant running of water, possibly from his shower. Stiffening, Henry gripped the steel pipe tightly. Was the intruder here? Raising the pipe above his head he gripped the door handle, preparing himself to barge in and ambush whoever was in there.

Throwing the door open, Henry took two steps in, saw that there was no one in the bathroom, saw that the water had stopped, saw his bathtub full of rot-smelling blood, and threw up in the toilet.


	8. Chapter 8

_To read my full comment on this chapter, go read my profile. I really suggest you do it, because I explain something pretty important there. About the vomit.  
_

_I like vomit._

_I don't like gym class. My sympathies, Henry._ _But only for the gym class. Not for the vomit._

* * *

**Silent Hill 4: Chapter 8**

Clutching the edges of the toilet so hard his knuckles turned white, Henry vomited into the bowl, tears streaming down his cheeks from the scorch of the bile. Retching so much even when there was nothing left to throw up it hurt his stomach, Henry stayed bent over the toilet for some time before he calmed down even amidst the smell of blood and puke. Groaning in disgust, Henry winced and accidentally let out a sob as the acid left a terrible taste in his mouth. Resisting the urge to wipe his mouth off with his sleeve, Henry stood up on wobbly legs, stumbling out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, grabbing a paper towel to wipe his mouth off and a glass to rinse his throat out.

Taking gulps of water, he swished around his mouth before spitting it out, repeating until every last trace of bile was gone from his mouth. Breathing hard, he straddled the sink with her hands, lowering his head. It didn't matter that he didn't feel for that death as much as the others because Andrew was somewhat of a jerk to the children—it still hit him, especially the surprise his apartment gave him afterwards. Splashing water onto his face, he rubbed it in until he felt refreshed enough.

Backing up, he noticed another red note under the door. Picking it up, he rubbed tears left over from his episode so he could read.

_I've found something that's extremely effective against the ghosts. It saved my life. It was stuck into the huge rock in the woods near the orphanage. It's a sword blade with a hand-made, triangle-shaped wooden handle that has some kind of spell written on it. As a weapon, it's heavy and hard to carry. But somehow it seems to change in response to the ghost-victim's power. Strike when the sword is energized! If you don't reduce their power, your attacks will be repelled. As far as I know, there are only five swords in existence with that kind of power. It's extremely valuable._

_July 23_

Henry's eyes lit up a little when he read the note, stowing it away for safe keeping. At least there was something here that instilled more happiness than a blood-filled bath tub. Putting it away safely, he sat on the sofa, letting his pain settle down. Tipping his head backwards, he kept his breathing heavy and steady. The aura of his apartment felt safe and inviting, at least at the moment. Somehow his wounds and bruises didn't hurt so much here. After a while he had decided that he had procrastinated long enough. Checking the door peephole to see an eighteenth handprint, he gathered his composure up before going back into the bathroom, holding his breath to block himself from the terrible stench of the blood and the vomit.

He reached over to flush the toilet, suddenly realizing that it wouldn't flush. Jiggling the handle multiple times, he watched in despair as his vomit, what used to be in his stomach, bubbled once and rippled, doing nothing else. He felt like throwing up again.

Instead he climbed into the hole, shutting off the smell and putting the vomit and blood from his mind from the amount of noise coming from inside of it.

_Damn bathroom…_

--

Henry's fingers twitched as he slowly woke up, face down again in rough asphalt. Standing up, he realized he was in a long corridor resembling a downtown alleyway with the weather-stained walls and floor. A bright light source from behind him made his shadow incredibly elongated, stretching all the way to the end of the hall.

Looking behind him he saw another hole, as well as he was cut off by a wall that rose to over his head, above it being an open doorway that flooded the hallway with a white light. The wall and end of the hallway itself was littered with so much garbage Henry didn't even consider climbing up it to the window of light. He was far too distracted by the distant noises anyways. There were screeches and hoots that seemed to come from sick birds and obnoxious monkeys, yelling their loudest when a sharp clap excited them.

Henry ignored the noises the best he could by going down the long hallway, walking. He could've run but his ankle probably wouldn't take kindly to that sort of movement. Turning the corner, he almost paused in confusion when he came to the bumper of a car when he left the alleyway. It looked like a normal roof, with no way for the car to reach up here save by crane, and even then there was no reason for it to be up here. There was nothing of use to him here, nothing but a broken ladder leading up to a water tower and a broken door. Giving the car one last bemused glance, he descended the grungy metal stairs to the floor below.

A man dropped from above when Henry reached the bottom of the staircase. At first he was incredibly shocked and worried, for the man was naked and crouched down on all fours. His skin was pale and smeared with a dark red, like dried blood. He was about to ask the man if he was alright when he lifted his head, revealing no face save for hollowed eye sockets covered by skin. Henry backed against the wall as the man, the thing, stood up.

It was muscular and humanoid, with a spine that stood out on its back and curved down to a sharp stinger that served as a makeshift tail. Bearing no chin, Henry stared at the stretched skin that hung down from its cheekbones, following all the way down to its chest where it seemed another head formed out of its sternum. The second head flopped around like it was nothing but flab, but Henry swore he could barely see features formed on the blood-smeared skin.

The man hooted at him, looking him up and down and deciding he was either suitable prey or a predator that needed to be driven out. Hooting again, it began to advance, making Henry to raise the steel pipe up by reflex. The man, reminding Henry of a hairless gorilla, reached out with a muscular arm, clawing at him with blunt, painful fingernails. Backed up against the wall, Henry could do nothing but cry out as the gorilla's nails raked at his chest. Feebly he whipped the pipe back and forth in front of him, warding the gorilla off. The beast jumped backwards on all fours, hooting again. Sucking in a breath Henry swung with the pipe, giving it a good blow to the side of the head.

Flinching as if shocked for a moment, the gorilla shook its head to get a hold of itself before standing straight up, bulging its biceps out and shaking furiously, roaring at Henry. Unfazed Henry whacked again, earning another roar and a swing from the opponent. Although the arms were muscular and the hits hurt, they were short-ranged and couldn't reach Henry at the distance he was standing, of which he was thankful.

It took quite a few hits to bring the gorilla man down, but Henry persevered until he backed it up against the wall, constantly attacking it until it slid to the ground. Staring at it for a while, Henry brought his shoe down on its ribcage, crunching it. Giving a gurgled cry it reached out a hand towards Henry before it fell back down, dead.

Trying the door just to the side of the dead body, Henry smirked sullenly as he found the knob hopelessly broken. Another metal staircase led downwards, so he followed it, finding another misplaced car. He stood there, staring at it until a ragged, echoing cry followed by a meaty thud interrupted his thoughts.

"_Ouch!_ Dammit…," A strangely familiar voice cursed behind him. Henry jolted and turned around to see a man dressed semi-formally struggling to get up off the ground. Rubbing his head ruefully he looked up, revealing to Henry that it was Richard from South Ashfield Heights.

"Where the hell am I…?" He questioned rather loudly. Henry took a few steps forward to see if he could help him up, but as soon as Richard saw him move he brought up a gun, pointing it directly at Henry's head. Shock and fear gripped Henry's chest and he stopped short, bringing up his hands in a sign of innocence as he backed off. Richard held the gun pointed at him, a feral look in his eyes. Tense seconds passed in which Henry didn't know whether he'd be shot down or not. It took Richard a long time for him to lose the crazy look and lower his gun, his voice relieved.

"Ah, you're a real person…," He got up, still holding his gun protectively. Henry didn't lower his hands until he was almost standing, quite cautious. He didn't make any moves to approach him lest he tick Richard off.

"Hey, you're the guy that lives across from me…," Richard noticed in a slight accusatory tone. Taking this as an opportunity, Henry walked forward, sticking out his hand.

"Yeah, my name's Henry," he introduced, waiting for him to shake. Richard put his hands on his hips, almost sniffed dismissively at Henry's outstretched hand, and curtly replied to his introduction.

"I'm Richard Braintree. From 207."

This is why Henry didn't especially enjoy talking to people. Feeling intensely awkward, he lowered his hand somewhat in shame. Richard took no notice of this, or merely just didn't seem to care, and looked away, nose somewhat held high.

"What the hell's happened to us?" he asked, "That hole…and this _freaky_ world!" Henry merely stood there as Richard talked, looking around while waving his gun in his hand. Flinching several times, Henry tried to keep his eyes off of the revolver, hoping Richard's hand wasn't trigger-happy.

"But if you're here too," Richard pointed at Henry and paused, looking back and forth before continuing, "then there must be something wrong with the whole apartment building…,"

Henry gazed off to the side, following Richard's words. It was dark and hard to see, but the bleak, deserted grayness of the multiple buildings was hard to miss out on. Once again he lost himself in thought, not unlike the time Cynthia was first talking to him. He was so deep he nearly missed what Richard had said next.

"That must explain what happened to that other guy too…,"

Blinking, Henry turned as Richard started to pace, hand held to his chin.

"What 'other guy'?" he asked. It was no surprise that Henry didn't know much of the building's history, as he even knew less of the tenants. He listened intently as Richard continued to speak, though he got the impression he was talking more to himself than to Henry.

"The guy who lived in 302 before you…A journalist. He disappeared one day." Richard turned, staring directly at Henry. Although Henry was taller, the almost crazy aura Richard had about him made him that much more intimidating, making Henry tense his muscles.

"He got pretty crazy towards the end…Shut himself up in his room and wouldn't come out…," Richard shook his head, his decorative tie depicting Venus swaying back and forth. He didn't notice the look of sheer pain that Henry gave him when he mentioned the craziness of locking himself in his own room. Betting against himself in his head, he figured ten to one that the journalist had happenings plague him while he was in room 302; similar to what Henry was going through. Richard gave Henry a look that was almost as accusatory as his voice. Henry stared ahead at him, making sure no other emotions got through lest Richard saw them.

"Anyway," Richard said, abruptly concluding the conversation, "I'm gettin' the hell out of here." He turned to a door next to the misplaced car, walking forward before he had an afterthought, turning his head back to Henry, "You should too—if you know what's good for you."

Flashes of the past three worlds clawed at Henry and he took a step forward as he came up with a thought.

"Wait," He said, making Richard stop and swing his head back in Henry's direction, as if he was tired of looking at him. Henry continued on slowly, still not quite sure of what he was exactly saying when it came to the little boy that had been hanging around the past two worlds, "Watch out for that…kid,"

Richard dismissed him with a wave and went through the door without another look. Henry was about to follow him to make sure he was at least going to be safe, but he soon found his way barred by two more naked gorillas. Stunned, he had only a moment to recover as one of them launched itself at him, leaving the other behind to guard the door. He was lucky enough to swing the pipe just as the muscular bulk nearly crashed into him. The gorilla was thrown off course, but still maintained its balance, screeching in pain then roaring in rage. Frantically Henry swung the pipe multiple times until the gorilla had only momentarily fallen to the ground. It was even trying to get back up when Henry stomped his foot on its face, crushing its skull.

Seconds later Henry collapsed under the unbearable weight of muscle as the gorilla guarding the door leaped, bowling him over. The wind was instantly knocked out of him and Henry coughed, squirming and struggling under the monster. If only he had a loaded gun!

The gorilla's hand grabbed Henry's neck, the muscles hardened and squeezing fast. Choking and gasping, Henry's eyes bulged in horror as he saw the other hand draw back in a fist, ready to smash his face into the pavement. Kicking uselessly, Henry tried to pry the monster's hand off with one hand, keeping the steel pipe in the other. It was of no use as the gorilla punched down. Having only seconds to react, Henry turned his face to the side, his cheek absorbing the impact of the gorilla's knuckles. If the beast had punched just a little lower, Henry would have gotten a broken jaw. Thoroughly convinced that the gorilla had bruised his cheekbone, he took small advantage in its unguarded head, swinging the pipe in an arc and smashing it soundly on the side of its skull. The gorilla roared in anger, loosening its grip on Henry ever so slightly. Gritting his teeth, Henry struck its head again and again until the monster rolled off of him, screaming in pain. Feeling absolutely no sympathy, Henry kicked it so it was face up before stomping it on the neck, breaking it instantly.

Soon after Henry fell to the ground in a violent coughing fit, beads of blood spraying on the ground from the force of his breath. Crouched on his knees and supporting himself with one hand, the other one on his throat, he couldn't help but notice how badly beaten the steel pipe was getting. He had delivered some hard hits with it, and one end was permanently dyed red, the entire pipe beginning to bend and twist. Moaning in between coughs, he started to wonder if the pipe would hold out as an adequate weapon much longer. Sooner or later Henry would swing it too hard, bending it past usefulness. Patting his hip to make sure the pistol was still tucked next to it, Henry uneasily stood up, grasping the pipe in his hand. It had to do for now, at least.

Opening the door that Richard had exited through, Henry was met with a continuous gurgling noise that was every once in a while interrupted by a moan. Walking carefully forward down the hallway to the open door at the end, Henry noticed that this was looking more like an apartment house from the flowered wallpaper and the full kitchen table. Streamers hung from the light and the cabinets gave the place the spooky impression of a deserted party. The stale cake on the table only made it more so. Floorboards creaking underneath his steps, Henry approached the source of the gurgling noises, finding a man pinned to the floor.

On closer inspection he noticed the man's skin to be pasty white, with pale eyes that burned with hatred; emphasized by his slit pupils. Gasping and holding the steel pipe close, he bent down, seeing the ghost struggle uselessly, unable to do anything. No headaches bothered him, and no pain struck him when the ghost's hand flailed through his shin. In its stomach was a strange sword-like object, with a cross-triangle handle made out of wood. Weird runes were carved into the handle, making Henry remember the note he had received before entering this world. After a while of staring at the ghost in pity, Henry noticed that its hand was clutching something. Catching the ghost's arm only God knows how, he pried the fingers open, taking a key from them.

Standing up, Henry stared at the key. A light bulb hung from a cord in front of a door leading out of the kitchen into who-knows-where. Slipping the key perfectly into the lock, he turned it, opening the door. Outside was a grated wall protecting another metal staircase. The grated wall was home to a few select slugs. Before he left what he assumed to be the ghost's kitchen he turned back, watching the sword pulsate. Biting his lip, he tried to impulsively decide what to do. Grabbing the wooden handle of the sword before he could contradict himself, Henry pulled up, resembling a young King Arthur. The sword glided easily away from the ghost, releasing it. As the ghost started to float upwards bringing the faint beginnings of a headache Henry turned on his heel, bolting out of there and into the grated room before it could do anything more.

Running down the metal steps with the sounds of the ghost behind him, Henry tried to ignore the pain in his legs and ankle as he ran. Noises one would expect to hear in a factory boomed in the distance, while a constant stomach gurgling accompanied the machinery. Feeling a headache start to creep up on him, Henry moved faster, letting slugs live even though they fell onto his shoulder.

Spotting a door underneath the final staircase, Henry swiveled around the railing post, nearly falling. Hearing the ghost moan behind him, he pumped his legs and threw open the door. A short alleyway greeted him with a door on the far side of the opposite wall. Seeing black oily spots appear on the craggy brick, Henry wasted no time in sprinting to the next door, hoping the ghost wouldn't follow him in the next room.

Clapping a hand over his nose, he was at least grateful the ghost didn't seem to follow him, but not so grateful of the smell. Something in here _reeked_. Approaching the shelves, Henry saw what looked like old skin thrown on there for show. Averting his eyes from the skin, he observed the room. Most of it was blocked off by broken shelves, most of them looking like they were tossed about by a giant. Some of them were even bloodstained, to match the one with the dead skin hanging off of it. A little red box sat on one of the shelves and Henry grabbed it as he approached, eager as a small child on Christmas. More bullets!

Taking the gun from his waistband he loaded it, feeling a better sense of security sweep him. Making sure the safety was on before he tucked it back into his waistband, Henry looked at the door that led to his only way out of there. Entering the room, he was flanked by a cashier desk and a hole, as well as an entire shop full of sporting goods.

Putting the wooden sword and the steel pipe aside, Henry collected all that he could salvage from the shop that would be useful as weapons. Most of the sporting goods were broken or plastic, useless as weapons. Still he managed to collect a five-iron golf club and a strong aluminum bat. Both could do a fair amount of damage, better than the steel pipe, even if the golf club would be soon to break.

Seeing as it was a little bit hard to continue onwards holding a wooden sword, a steel pipe, a bat and a golf club, Henry clambered into the hole with all his items, wanting to drop things off. Though his load was heavier than usual, he felt strangely light-hearted, as though he had just significantly upped his defenses against an army.

--

Henry woke up rather uncomfortably. He was laying on the golf club and steel pipe while the wooden sword was poking him on the side, the aluminum bat lying askew between his feet. Lifting his already aching body off of the weapons, Henry tried not to think about how the pipe was still stained with wet blood. Gathering everything up in his arms (including the Watchfulness placard that he had forgotten about the last time he was in his room) he moved into the living room. He had little difficulty in transporting the long items through small openings, as he had experience with maneuvering his folded tripod through small doors.

Opening the trunk with a creak, he placed the wooden sword, steel pipe, placard, and five-iron in it, closing it with a click. The golf club he could use another day, set in storage for a time when he needed it. Gripping the bat's soft leather he stood up, his eyes just glancing at the window.

Henry jerked in surprise as the disembodied head of the late Andrew DeSalvo floated up and down outside of his window, blood falling from his neck. Even after rolling away for a while the head returned, turning in a pattern that almost suggested a dance. Andrew's mouth was open, as if he was reciting something as he twirled about.

Clasping his stomach, Henry backed up out of view. Not bothering to check if there was anything new happening in his apartment he turned and entered the hole in his bathroom as quickly as possible. The stench of the blood and vomit only reminded him more of Andrew's demise. He was quite thankful when the hole took the smell away, landing him back in the sports shop.

Sighing, Henry rubbed his nose roughly, getting rid of the memory of the stench. He wondered if his toilet would start working again soon. There was definitely not going to be any more water service in his bathroom, though the kitchen sink still worked. He'd probably be losing water there soon too.

Running his hand through his thick hair, he looked around the trashed shop. Two doors apart from the one he entered through offered up an exit. Kicking away a volleyball, he tried one of the doors to find it thoroughly locked. Trying the other door, Henry stepped out onto another metal staircase protected by grated fences. The walls around it were of warehouse quality, smeared with blood as if it was paint. Only the stairs were sparsely lit, and as Henry descended them a deep breath exhaled darkly in the blackness beyond the stairs. Moving at twice the speed he normally would he passed through the door at the end of the staircase to the sound of another monstrous breath.

A dog approached him at the door. Henry held the bat close to his face like he had seen professionals do. Backing up slowly on the checkered tile, he waited patiently.

Three hits later the dog lay stunned on the floor, twitching and hissing. Finishing it off with a stomp, he felt strangely pleased. Taking care of another dog, Henry paused and stared at the contents of the room, his eyes not really seeing what they were looking at.

The bat was a good weapon. It was stronger and thicker than the pipe even though it had a much shorter range. With the little time it now took to kill a dog Henry felt a curious twinge of bliss run through him even when he felt his foot sever the spine. At least with the dogs and the moths as far as he could tell, it was getting much easier for him to thoughtlessly kill them. Perhaps it was because he had a need for survival, but he was more afraid that it was because he was losing his respect for life.

Walking down the isles and isles of shelves full of pet supplies Henry saw, in the corner of his eye, three moths on the wall behind a counter, just over one last dog. Ducking behind one of the shelves he breathed hard. Killing had become easier, but just for now; just for survival. Closing his eyes, comforted by this thought, Henry threw himself at the monsters.

Immediately surrounded but not overwhelmed, he swung as hard as he could to first rid himself of the moths. Luckily he managed to hit the dog too, causing it to collapse to the ground, gurgling. One moth careened across the room, slamming into the wall in a gruesome homerun. Another moth met a similar fate with shorter flight time.

The last moth stung him in the back. Ignoring it for the moment, Henry finished off the dog before turning around to whack the moth to the floor. Crushing it under his foot, he wiped the guts off on the stone floor.

Backing away from behind the counter, he decided to search for the moth that hit the wall, just to make sure it had died. He didn't find the body anywhere, though it wasn't that big of a surprise considering how hard he hit it. Turning a few empty pet cages over, he finally gave up, scratching the back of his head. Passing by a shelf that held enough cat food to feed an army of cats, he saw something nestled between the boxes. Pausing for a moment, he pushed the items aside to find a key. The tag attached to it read 'Albert's Sports Key' in bold sharpie. Henry pocketed the key, heading out the door behind the counter to continue exploring before he turned around to go back to the sports shop, where the key no doubt led to.

Moaning from below sent shivers up Henry's spine, putting him on full alert. Stepping out onto another metal staircase he found himself blocked by a ghost. The appearance was that of a downtown teenager. Carved over his mouth were the numbers '12121.' Henry raised the bat right before he froze before the teenage ghost. Holding his head tenderly as it approached, he saw no way around it. The growing intensity of the headache forced him to make a split decision. A very rash split decision.

Putting his shoulder forward, Henry braced himself to charge at the ghost. He tried not to think about his days in grade school, where the gym teacher would have a football unit. Needless to say, Henry was one of the kids that could never get his body weight right, and often came home with at least one bruise from the bigger kids. He was a small kid growing up and remained that way until he was sixteen; he was very easy to push around. Nothing had changed from the way his body worked then to now, and there were absolutely no guarantees that this was going to work. Clenching his teeth and pretending to be the quarterback he could never possibly be, he shouldered straight into the ghost, his headache bringing colorful spots to his vision.

Piecing together enough of his mind, Henry gathered enough energy to run down the steps, plowing through the door at the bottom and shutting it, cutting the ghost and his headache off. Sliding to the slanted floor, he coughed and pulled his knees close to him, blinking the spots and pain away. Raising his head, Henry groaned when he saw no escape from the strangely engineered room. He didn't exactly want to go back into closed quarters with a ghost.

Standing up despite his wobbling legs, he walked around the room, watching his step. The floor was uneven and hazardous, as if it wasn't built to be a floor. Past some grated squares that almost suggested air conditioning vents was a concrete slope up to a clock. The clock resembled the one he had in his living room that had frozen still at 10:06. The biggest difference between the two clocks was that this one was upside down. The strangest thing was that the pendulum hanging down from the clock face paid no heed to gravity and stood erect as if it was held there. Peeking behind the clock he noticed a door, with a rusted knob that was also placed upside down. Next to the door was a light with a shade that was too upside down, with little regards to gravity.

Glancing around in confusion, Henry looked up to see a smooth ceiling and a fence running along one side of it, hanging downwards. Stepping away from the clock door, he realized that what he thought was the floor was actually the ceiling. No blood rushed to his head from hanging upside down, but looking at the air vents in the floor he figured that by some sort of sorcery or trick _he_ was the one that was upside down, and not the room. It felt a lot like one movie from the eighties he had seen—it had been so long that he didn't remember what the movie was or what it was about.

Allowing himself to rest for a bit, Henry sat with his back to the door he had entered through. A few minutes later he backtracked all the way to the sports shop, carefully avoiding the 12121 ghost. Seeing the ghost again had Henry hoping that it wasn't as teenaged as it seemed, and at least a little older than seventeen.

Unlocking the last door in the sports shop, he opened up with a little trouble, budging against it to dislodge it from its rusted spot. Back outside in the balmy air, Henry heard the unmistakable hooting of gorillas climbing up some stairs to meet him. Peeking through the grated floor he saw two of the mutants slowly ascending on two feet. Figuring he'd take the enclosed space to his advantage, Henry ventured to meet them, bat readied. Sidestepping along the railing, he bided his time until the gorillas got close enough to swipe at. As soon as he attacked the first one he heard a thud behind him.

Letting his eyes glance around for just a moment, Henry backed away out of range from a third gorilla. This particular one looked different somehow in that some of its skin on its torso was ripped off, showing red guts underneath. Its face was covered by some sort of a white skull mask, emphasizing the dark hollow eye sockets.

Acting quickly Henry hit the gorilla he had been attacking, causing it to tumble down the steps. Bowling into the mutant behind it, both creatures fell down all the way to the bottom of the stairs. Rushing down the steps Henry quickly stomped on both of their necks before they could get back up. He turned to see the skull-faced gorilla at the top of the steps, staring at him without eyes. After uneasily returning its stare for a while, Henry made a break for it, descending the rest of the stairs to the bottom, where a door waited.

He was immediately blocked off as two more gorillas dropped from unseen heights; the skull-faced one from the staircase dropping behind him again. Surrounded and overwhelmed, Henry found it quite impossible to fend off the three gorillas at once. If he turned and tried to attack the one behind him, the other two would swipe at his back, blunt nails raking down to his skin. Trying to face the two in front led to the one behind attacking him, and if he tried to switch his position so nothing but the wall was behind him he'd quickly be smacked back into place by one of the mutants, a constant piggy-in-the-middle. Squinting his eyes to dull the pain, he continued to lash out with the aluminum bat, getting more injuries than he was delivering.

Bleeding and bruised in more places than he'd care to count, Henry wished, _hoped_ that he'd make it through long enough to at least get past this. Things were getting far too dire as he stood there, trapped between devious muscular mutants. Just as he was about to be brought to his knees, some sort of divine force had him land the bat on the head of one of the gorillas in front of him. Having now hit the beast enough times, it finally collapsed to the ground. Taking no time in making sure it was dead, Henry stomped it and fled before the remaining two could re-establish a trap.

A feeling of utter dismay descended on him as he discovered the door to be broken. Jiggling the knob hopelessly he cringed against the roars of anger the gorillas screamed behind him. To his immediate right was a slim pathway of concrete wrapping around the building. Biting his lip he stepped to the side onto the pathway just as one of the gorillas slammed into the door, exactly where he had been standing only a moment before. Temporarily dazed, the gorilla posed no immediate threat as its thick skull had created a dent in the metal door. The other one, however, with its eyeless face, was dead set on getting Henry.

Chancing a glance behind him to find a fairly good drop to a concrete bottom, Henry gathered up his courage and ran along the pathway as angry hoots behind him grew uncomfortably close. There was a door he once again desperately tried only to find it shut incredibly tight. The gorillas had both rounded the corner and were making a good pursuit—they had much more balance and confidence than Henry, and could easily catch themselves if they happened to fall.

Trying to put his mind away from it, Henry ran towards two elevator doors ahead, praying that they would take him away from here.

The first elevator car wasn't there, and wasn't going to be there any time soon. Unable to wait he quickly punched the button for the other elevator, finding that it opened for him albeit slowly and loudly. Henry dove into the elevator car, quickly hitting the 'door close' button as fast as he could. The gorillas were nearing and though he might still be able to fight them he was wounded and tired.

Again the doors moved slowly, allowing the two mutants to appear in the gap of the doors, catching them before they closed and muscling them open again, roaring. Stiffening, a growl appeared on Henry's face. He was not willing to give up the chance for rest after a harrowing battle. Swinging the bat hard in an uppercut-like motion, he caught the gorilla in the 'second head.' Stunned, the gorilla fell backwards, losing its grip on the elevator doors. Henry whacked it again with a strong overhand swing that sent the gorilla stumbling off the concrete pathway and to the floor below.

The next gorilla leaped in front of the closing doors, roaring viciously. It was about to jump in when it leaped straight into the bullet Henry had discharged from the pistol. Its face exploded with a small fountain of blood and it stumbled back. Henry didn't see if it fell off or not—the elevator doors closed in front of him.

Picking the lowest floor number, Henry leaned back against the elevator wall, letting out an immense sigh of relief as he looked upwards, eyes closed to both dull the pain and relax his body. With a jerk the elevator rattled downwards, bumpy at first but smoothing out as he went.

Seeing something out of the corner of his eye when he re-opened them, Henry watched as his elevator—with grated walls—passed the other one. It was occupied by none other than Richard Braintree and the orphan kid Walter Sullivan. As Henry began to drop down below the two, he heard Richard's voice over the sound of the machinery. He stared in disbelief.

Richard held his revolver in the kid's face.

"Are you the kid he was talkin' about?" he said in his trademark accusatory tone, "You live in that apartment too, huh?!"

Henry's elevator stopped at the bottom. He could still hear and see the movement of the elevator above, although his vision was somewhat blocked by the chain linked grating and wires. Richard raised his revolver and started waving it around, somewhat pointing it at the little kid's chest. The kid stepped backwards in fear, losing part of his balance.

_Easy Richard…!_ Henry warned in his head, not having the guts to interrupt him.

"Say…you look a lot like a little _punk_ that I once caught sneakin' around there…," Richard stood up straight, standing over the boy and intimidating him. Walter took another step back as Richard's voice became laced with more venom, "Do you know somethin' about what's goin' on?!"

Holding the revolver steadily at the kid's head, Richard began to scream as the boy turned and fled unsteadily away. Through the grating Henry could sense the ugly scowl that twisted Richard's face as the kid ran.

"Hey! Hey, you! Stop!" he roared, running after him in hot pursuit. The elevator door closed, shrouding the shaft in silence. Henry looked away from the bottom of the other elevator. The back door of the car had opened, showing him a ladder down. Taking the option in front of him, Henry descended the ladder, his mind full of Richard and the gun.

Down in a tiled basement, he saw a ladder directly across from him, most likely leading to the shaft with the elevator Richard was in. Ignoring it, Henry went to the only hallway down there, with a ladder at the end leading upwards. Blocked by a mass of white, twisted tentacles, he slowly but surely swung his way to the ladder, carving a path for himself through the tentacles. Ascending the ladder, he felt his heart drop when he heard the hooting of more gorillas.

Caught in an alleyway that looked like a deteriorated business plaza, he was momentarily alone—the hoots far enough away that they could've been just echoes from another part of this world. He didn't think it likely though as he cautiously walked through the alleyway, clutching the bat firmly. None of the doors he tried worked, the only direction to go was down the alley.

Around the corner he was met with two gorilla men, one with a skull face and the other like the first one he had seen here. Three dogs patrolled behind them, tongues dragging and scraping on the cement floor. Taking no chances, Henry pulled out the gun and aimed.

The skull-faced gorilla drew closer to him, the second head on its chest swaying back and forth with its awkward movements on two legs. Henry waited until it got close enough that it was point blank range, and fired.

It fell instantly, a devastating shot planted between its eyes. Henry stomped it, looking up to see that the one shot had started a wave of movement. All three dogs charged at once, the second gorilla roaring and trembling in anger before it dropped to all fours, running on the ground with its knuckles. Firing blindly, Henry only took milliseconds to aim before he shot, hoping for it to land home.

All three dogs crumpled to the ground before they could reach him. Henry ignored their twitching as the gorilla kept running forward. Shooting it three times in the chest, he was worried that the gorilla would have a chance to crash into him, suffocating him with its weight. Luckily for Henry the gorilla collapsed, struggling to get back up. Stomping it soundly, he went around and made sure the rest of the dogs were dead as well. Feeling alright despite the fact he only had two bullets left, he picked his way through the corpses, heading down the rest of the alleyway.

A chain-link fence blocked off one side of the fork. On the other side of it were two gorilla corpses, one shot in the head. They were lying just outside of two elevator doors. Blinking, Henry stared at them for a moment before seeing the pistol bullets just on the other side of the fence on the ground. Tucking the gun with only two bullets loaded into it away in his waistband, Henry dropped down to his stomach, creeping his hand forward to see if he could reach the little red box. The fence was low and sharp, but the box was well within arms reach. Trying to slip his fingers through, Henry cursed his bulky hands as his skin scraped gently against the little barbs the chain link created at the edge of the fence. Carefully he flattened his knuckles, wedging his hand underneath the fence. Once the cuff of his sleeve protected his skin he reached forward, grasping the box of bullets in his hand.

He pulled his hand in, not thinking about the added bulk that the box gave him. A barb from the fence caught his skin and tore it, creating a great gash on the back of his hand. Henry cursed audibly and yanked his hand backwards, putting the bullets away in his pocket. Suddenly surly, Henry sat and sucked the cut, pondering on whether he recently had his tetanus shots or not. Spitting out some of the blood he had sucked in, he murmured sulkily as he rubbed his hand dry on his jeans, waiting for the cut to start to heal itself. He just took on three dogs and two gorillas without a scratch, but earned himself a gash because of a flimsy fence.

Once the cut had stopped bleeding as intensely as it originally had, Henry stood up, picking up the bat. Up ahead the alley ended, leading out into a more open space. The area was empty save for one strangely quiet gorilla guarding the only door. Figuring he could deal with him Henry drew out the gun. Just before he could aim multiple gorilla-like-hulks dropped from nowhere, putting the count at five to one.

Henry gawked for a moment, accidentally firing off a shot. This clearly angered the four closest gorillas into an offensive stance. The gorillas charged him and pushed him up against the wall, large thick bodies suffocating and crushing him. He would've coughed violently if he had the air. Literally feeling his ribs cave in on him, he dropped the bat, no longer having strength to hold it as he was focusing all of it on holding the gun. Sputtering and hopelessly gasping for air, he pushed the gun against one of the gorilla's flesh, knowing that there was only one bullet left. Two gorillas had him pinned to the wall while the other two pranced about on all fours, hooting excitedly. Oxygen deprived, Henry felt the world get woozy and blurry. Gathering up his sense, he squeezed the trigger.

The gorilla jumped back so harshly and suddenly that its partner released its hold on Henry as well. It was screeching in horror and hopping about, switching legs as if it didn't know which one to stand on. All the other gorillas momentarily stopped and gaped at the wounded one, staring in awe at its bleeding groin.

Collapsing to the ground Henry caught his breath, slowly allowing his ribs to rebuild themselves and stop constricting his lungs. The gorilla with the groin that had been shot at squealed in dismay and leaped onto a water tower across the clearing, whimpering and staying away from the fight. Henry brought the attention of the others back to himself again as he coughed multiple times, sucking in large amounts of air. The gorillas were silent for a moment, staring at him in wonder before one roared in rage, then the next, and the next, and soon every gorilla present was angrily howling at him, jumping up and down and beating their chests. Knowing that he wouldn't stand a chance against them even with the replenished bullets, Henry staggered forward until he got himself into a clumsy run. To his surprise and gratefulness the gorillas somewhat avoided him cautiously, having seen what his gun could do to their groins. Henry assumed that that's where the genitals were, even if they were quite hidden the reaction he got suggested that they were there none the less. If any gorilla got a little too close for his comfort while he ran forward, he just waved the gun around at a low angle. They'd skip back acrobatically, keeping their distance lest he shot them again even if the gun was now empty.

The only problem now was the gorilla guarding the door. It stood there, totally unfazed at everything that had happened, only joining in when the wave of rage hit the mutants only moments ago. In its hand was a golf club, tightly held and raised as if it knew how to use it. These creatures were definitely intelligent. Waving the gun around did not cause it to falter. It merely stood there at the door between a broken vending machine and stacked cardboard boxes. Wincing, Henry gathered up what little strength he still possessed, and charged, having stupidly left the bat where he dropped it.

The gorilla raised the golf club and brought it down, aiming at Henry's head. Ducking to avoid it, Henry grabbed the golf club and held on, using the leverage of the gorilla's strength to somewhat swing it about. It wasn't working out too well as the gorilla was far more stocky and stable than he was. Yanking the club away from him the mutant swung again, aiming for Henry's ribs this time. Once again he caught the club, but not before it hit him in the side. Not only did he get a nasty bruise from it, he heard a sharp crack and an intense bolt of pain. Gasping loudly and squeezing his eyes shut, he tried not to falter from the pain. He had never broken a bone before, and the excruciating pain from his now busted rib gave him quite a surprise.

Stumbling, he held firm to the club, keeping it nestled in his side. The gorilla began to hoot, signaling to its fellow mutants that Henry was now attackable. Gurgling in pain he managed to find an awkward stance of balance. Holding the gun tightly he swung the butt of the pistol forward as the gorilla was distracted hooting. Striking it in the head he caught it totally by surprise, making it loosen its grip on the golf club. Taking advantage of its temporary daze Henry pushed the gorilla aside into the broken vending machine. Quickly putting the gun away and grabbing the knob he swung the door open, almost feeling the breath of the other gorillas at the back of his neck. Keeping the golf club in hand he threw himself into the next room, closing the door behind him.

The gorilla still had his original hold of the club and wasn't willing to give in that soon. Knowing this would happen, Henry slammed the door on the gorilla's arm, satisfied by the shriek he heard and the golf club that now replaced the aluminum bat. Breathing a sigh of success, Henry walked down yet another staircase—though this one was set in a place that gave off a more 'parlor' feel to it. A fan that hung from the ceiling rotated, reminding him of the fan in his bedroom. It cast a great shadow on the floor, giving the impression that it was actually a huge industrial fan rather than just a regular ceiling fan. Giving an eerie feeling, Henry passed under its shadow, somehow feeling extra cautious.

Going through the door underneath the staircase Henry found himself outside again, a metal staircase with slugs attached to it to greet him. Mostly ignoring the slugs as he went down, he found himself in a back alley used for garbage storage. A quick poke through the garbage showed nothing useful, but revealed to him that either a bar or a club was near from all the beer bottles and the stench of stale alcohol. Wrinkling his nose at the stench he moved forward. Three doors were his only way out. Two of them on one wall were shut too tightly for him to make them even remotely budge. The final door opened, sending him into a room full from floor to ceiling of slugs.

Before he could look at them in distaste he sensed the sudden change of atmosphere. Looking around he found himself in a bar setting, booze behind the oak counter and a billiard table off to the right. From the looks of it they were in the middle of the game, suddenly stopped for some reason. The real thing that caught Henry's eye though was the rusty axe with a sturdy handle conveniently placed on a table right in front of him. Taking it up in his hands he felt a little more secure—it would have more power than the bat and was sturdy enough to withstand most beatings, unlike the golf club. From the weight Henry could tell that it would be a very easy weapon to handle.

Seeing a note on the bar Henry walked up and read it, holding the wooden handle of the axe loosely in his hand.

_The boss said that the number this time is the last four digits of this store's phone number. But the phone number is written right there on the sign on the roof. Anybody could see it from South Ashfield Street. Is that really okay?_

Leaning against the bar he glanced at the door out, seeing the keypad locking it. South Ashfield Street was the very street his apartment was located on. He had a clear view of it from his window. Spying a hole behind the billiard table, Henry gratefully clambered into it, happy to be going back to the apartment. Something about the aura of his home—even if it was a hellish home—made him feel better and less pained. Blacking out helped too, because believe or not, it rested him.

And Jesus Christ did he need the rest.


	9. Chapter 9

_Quick update! Short chapter. I'm going to be going on another small vacation, and what I'll do is edit the terrible chapter 7 instead of writing further onward._

_I start this chapter off with a bang that includes my most FAVORITE cutscene of every single Silent Hill game EVER. I'll give you a hint: There are a lot of strange things in this world. Also, I do know how to mend a broken rib without medical help. Henry should NOT wrap it up in a brace like way, that'd be bad. Mmyup. Basically, Henry's stuck, pretty much. You're just supposed to let the rib be._

_Sorry, Henry._

_

* * *

_**Silent Hill 4: Chapter 9**

Rudely awakened by a sharp pain that centered in his torso, Henry gasped and rolled over, putting his weight off of one side. The rib he had broken prodded at him, restricting air and making it agonizing to breathe. He lay there, ever so slightly curled on his bed until the pain disappeared—it was either that or he had gotten used to it. Carefully slipping off of the bed sheets, he stood up, groaning. He didn't think there was anything he could do to set his broken rib, and there was no way he could research it right now without being able to go to a library, doctor's office, or access to the internet. The only medical training he possessed was minor first-aid abilities and CPR, though he hadn't taken the course for it in years.

Keeping his breaths to minimum depth he walked out to his trunk, putting the golf club away. He had to be careful not to bend over too much lest he hurt himself further. Rubbing his ribcage tenderly, he yawned softly as he approached the door, thinking he heard noise on the other side. Peeking through the peephole, he saw Frank and Eileen, both of them staring curiously at the door. He felt too beat up and weak at the moment to pound aimlessly at the door, and waited until Eileen stepped forward.

"How's it going with room 302?" she asked, concerned. Frank gestured casually, somewhat lost on what to do. Holding a piece of paper in his hand, he answered her question the best he could.

"Well…I, uh, just tried to open it up, but it looks like somethin's, uh…_blockin_' it from the inside." Eileen let out a low 'oh' and nodded her head. Frank looked to her, his voice dropping ever so slightly in pitch.

"Anyway, it's not the first time…," he began, suddenly deciding that it wouldn't be a smart idea to finish and left it at that. Eileen looked up at him in surprise, pointing toward the door.

"You mean…the guy who lived here before…?" Astonished, she watched as Frank observed Henry's door. His face, droopy and sunken from old age and worry, knitted together at his brow as he concentrated on his conclusion.

"And…it wasn't just him, either. There's, uh, somethin'…_wrong_ with this whole apartment…," Making a worldly gesture, Frank didn't see as Eileen hugged her arms, rubbing herself to get rid of the goosebumps that had sprouted on them.

"Don't say that…," she said softly, backing up and looking around her as if she was prey sensing a predator nearby, "You're scaring me…,"

Frank dropped down to the bottom of Henry's door. Grunting softly from effort, Eileen turned her attention to him as he got up, a few bones popping from the movement. Standing in front of Henry's vision, he switched the subject, partially for Eileen's sake.

"Well, anyway, I just slipped a note under his door," He glanced around for a bit before turning back to Eileen, somewhat awkwardly trying to make a recovery for scaring her. Henry watched as his neighbor, still hugging herself, relaxed as Frank talked. There was something strange about the way she moved when she was scared—almost as if she had more than a right to move like that, the fact that maybe, perhaps, she really was prey.

"Don't worry about it too much," Frank consoled in his experienced voice, "There are a…lot of strange things in this world…,"

As soon as he had her relaxed, Frank tore down what he had rebuilt in the next line he said. It looked like he was saying it as mere instinct and wasn't really thinking about it, from the way he just stared off into space. Still, it wasn't something to say when you were comforting someone about paranormal happenings.

"The umbilical cord I keep in a box in my room…,"

_What?!_

"Lately, it's started to smell terrible…,"

_What the hell?!_

Eileen cocked her head at him, eyebrows curled upwards in high confusion and suspicion.

"Huh? Um_bilical_ cord…?" She asked, as politely as possible. Frank jerked as if he was suddenly brought back to earth and shook his head slightly, waving his hand.

"Oh, forget I said anything…," Struck awkward, Frank turned and walked away. Obviously forcing what he had just said from her mind, Eileen stepped forward to follow, paused, stared right at Henry through the peephole from a distance away, and murmured to herself.

"But still, those _noises_…," She kept her eyes on the door as she walked away, both their footsteps disappearing down the hallway. When Henry could hear no more, he turned away from the door, utterly perplexed.

_The umbilical cord he keeps in his what? Lately it's started to _what?! Henry tapped at the chains, trying to wrap his brain around what he had just heard outside of his door. Frank was always a little out of it at times, but was a kind man and always level-headed. Hearing something like _that_ come out of his mouth made him wonder if what was happening just wasn't confined to his room. As Frank and Richard had said, there's something wrong with the whole apartment.

Seeing a note in between his feet, Henry bent down to pick it up. He retracted his hand in surprise when he felt that it was damp, _wet_ even. Carefully setting it in his hand so it wouldn't tear, he brought it up to his face, struggling to read the note even though it was so soaked with blood it was falling apart. Eventually he gave up and set the note on the counter to dry.

Remembering why he had initially returned to his apartment in the first place, Henry walked up to the window, crouching down so he could see better. There, on the roof of a building, was an advertisement for Bar Southfield. It was a typical bar ad, showing off glasses of beer and wine, though in a more refined way in this case. Taking a piece of paper out of his red diary, he scribbled down the phone number and tucked it in his pocket. Grabbing the axe, he entered his foul-smelling bathroom, climbing into the hole feeling less pain than he did when he arrived.

--

Nearly bumping into the billiard table in front of him, Henry tried to avoid the brick walls, seeing the amount of slugs they had on them. Taking out his scribbled memo of the phone number, he pushed a slug away from the keypad, reading it in the light that filtered in from the blinds.

555-3750. Typing in the last four digits, he heard an affirmative beep as the door unlocked. Opening the door hard enough so the slugs on it fell writhing to the ground, but soft enough that it didn't make much of a creak, he entered a very high room, bordered by brick walls and laced with more metal staircases. The stairs to his immediate right had broken and the jump between them was perilous, but everything above looked alright. He couldn't see the top, the stairs went on that far. Sighing heavily and trying to prepare himself for the climb, he stepped forward.

A sharp yelp of pain echoed off of the walls, potent with fear. Henry stopped and looked upwards, heart pounding. It sounded like Richard. The only other sound to be heard was the moaning of two ghosts—both the teenaged one and the one from the building apartment. Henry took no time and bolted up the stairs despite the ghosts, knowing all too well what he'd be likely to find. Pumped with a new source of adrenaline, he felt nothing as he began to clamber up the steps, the ghosts behind him.

The headache the ghosts were causing switched on and off depending on how close they got to him. Taking the steps two, sometimes three at a time, Henry's speed soon had them following his dust—they floated directly a floor beneath him and were not intelligent enough to cut him off by flying across the stairwell. He wasn't in any initial danger with them aside from the occasional sting from the headaches.

Enduring the side cramps, Henry kept running up each flight of stairs. He wasn't focused on keeping count of how many he had scaled, but the number was somewhere around eleven stories. Wheezing so hard he was agitating his broken rib, Henry topped the staircase, not pausing for a moment until he ran all the way around to the door at the end of the pathway. Putting a hand against the door to support himself he coughed and panted, hearing the ghosts moan not far behind. A purple plate was set into the door. Henry removed it, examining the abstract pattern. Engraved on the back was the word 'Chaos.'

He looked up to see the numbers 207 in a similar fashion to the doors at his apartment building. In fact, it _was_ room 207 from his apartment building. Henry stopped breathing for a moment as he realized the significance.

Richard's room.

Feeling the headaches worsen, Henry put a shaking hand to the doorknob and turned it.

Standing still for a moment, Henry gaped in horror at what he saw down the hallway of Richard's apartment. Flashing blue lights amplified the terror, and he soon saw why. At first he was confused—Richard was sitting down facing him in a chair, jerking like he was having a severe seizure. The crackling pop of electricity soon showed Henry the truth, as he saw Richard strapped to the chair through metal bindings, perfect for a cruel execution.

Sprinting forward, Henry skidded to a stop just before Richard, frantically looking around. Acting on the instinct to help, he reached down to the clasps on his wrist, hoping to try and get him out. Instantly he was burned, the pain searing his hand and jaggedly running up his arm and down to his foot. His arm struck numb, Henry jumped back and cradled it, watching in helplessness as Richard twitched, blood pouring out of his nostrils, mouth, and ears. His eyes, struck blind from the electricity, rolled up into his head, revealing the blood vessels and pointing to the number carved into his forehead.

_19121_.

Veins popped out on his skin, a burning white color from how far they stretched away from the body. Tearing his eyes away for only a moment, Henry saw in the corner of the room stood the little boy. Turning his full attention to the boy standing at the window, he furrowed his brow. Oblivious, the boy didn't care that Richard screamed in pain. He simply raised one hand and pointed out the window. Henry was about to run up and grab him when Walter Sullivan simply disappeared from sight.

"A, a, a, a, a, k…k, 'kid'?!" Richard screamed through gritted teeth, the electricity making him hard to understand. Henry turned his attention back to him, desperately looking for a plug or a wire leading to the chair. There were none.

"Th, th, th, th, that's n…n, no kid…," Henry winced, opened his mouth to say something, but just gulped in an air of burning flesh. Richard's body had begun to smoke, being cooked from the inside out. His head leaned back, revealing that the blood from his nostrils trailed all the way down his throat and under his shirt. The cuffs of his sleeves were all but on fire as his fingers began to now weakly twitch.

"It's…th…the 1, 1, 1, 2, 1…m, m…man…,"

Richard let out one last cry, one that would've been a gurgle had he possessed any saliva left, and fell forward, his body smoking and threatening to set on fire. The electricity did not stop even as he sat there dead.

Henry hung his head, letting his shoulders relax. _Oh God…_Another person was dead, and he had really had the chance to save him this time. Like all the other times he had miserably failed. The blood on Richard's face began to crust on, no longer flowing like a normal liquid.

Looking through the barred windows, he tried to guess what the boy had been pointing at. Through them he could see the other side of the apartments, including his room.

No doubt the little kid would show up there next.

--

Dazed and numb, Henry slowly got up, having little feeling or movement in his right arm. The axe he had been holding when he 'warped' back to his apartment fell to the ground with a thud, damaging part of the carpet. He didn't remember how he had handled the axe when he got into Richard's room; he was too fixated on the dying man, and his eyes. Harshly rubbing his arm to get feeling back into it he stood up. Wobbling a little bit, he stumbled over to his desk, wanting to flip through his scrapbook. 11121, he had seen that number before. He just needed to remember where and when.

Fruitlessly he turned the pages, finding nothing that would help him. Sighing, he rubbed the stubble on his chin, wondering how long it had been since he _had_ shaved. Five days, he guessed. Maybe six. He was losing count. Perhaps he might just end up like those gangly old men in the cartoons, scratching the days on the wall in tally marks, their beards growing down past their feet as their clothes reduced to rags. Most of those characters were pretty insane. Henry looked out the window. He didn't want to be insane, but he figured it wasn't something he could control, in fact, he wondered if he wasn't insane already.

Inadvertently his eyes wandered over to Richard's room. There was movement in there, but he didn't think of it as too odd, for the policeman should be running around there. Squinting harder, however, revealed that this was out of place. There was a man standing in front of Richard's window, right next to the chair he had been electrocuted in. He stood there, as still as a statute, pointing out the window as the little boy had done. For a moment, Henry thought he was pointing at his room, but as he continued to stare he realized that he was pointing just a little too far over. Room 303.

Eileen's room.

_Perhaps_. Henry reminded himself. And only _perhaps_. Rubbing his chin again, scratching his fingertips on the rough growth, he left his room. The radio crackled with another intercepted police report. The quality was poor and riddled with static.

"Looks like another one, captain…," Sitting on his sofa, Henry listened quietly to the radio, "…got '1…121'…on his head. It's just like that case from ten years ago. Yeah, that Walter Sullivan case. But Sullivan's _dead_. They even got the body. Must be some crazy copycat…Yeah, but even so…," The static died, leaving the room filled with quiet. Henry closed his eyes and relaxed as best he could, unable to get the vision of Richard's eyes from his mind.

A soft, continuous knock at the door jerked Henry away from his dozing. It wasn't violent nor was it insistent, it was patient and calm, waiting for him to reach it on his own time. Unable to stifle another yawn, he realized just how tired he really was as he peeked into the peephole, expecting a person.

His sleepiness was washed away as, painted over the nineteen bloody handprints, was a grim message of death. Heart pounding harder the more he stared at it, he all but stumbled back from the door, faltering over himself to get to the carved hole in his living room wall.

_BETTER CHECK ON YOUR NEIGHBOR SOON!_

The man in Richard's room had been pointing just a little too far over to be Henry's room. It was room 303. Eileen's room.

Perhaps.

Perhaps.

_Perhaps_.


	10. Chapter 10

_School is starting soon, that either means less chapter updates--or more. I'm so terrible, I know. I doodle, write, and daydream when the teacher is talking. Hey lucky me, I have an AP class this year. Let's see if that will go well with all my dawdling._

_I'm curious as to _why_ Henry just doesn't AXE DOWN HER DOOR. Courtesy I guess. Damn you Henry._

_

* * *

_**Silent Hill 4: Chapter 10**

A brief sense of relief hit Henry as he saw Eileen sitting off to the side of her bed, bent over as she fastened on some sort of footwear. The relief was soon gone though as he realized she was still in very grave danger. His throat tightened up when she walked by, unable to speak. Dressed in her formal wear, Eileen made it that much harder for Henry to talk to her even if she was going to be in peril.

_Perhaps_.

He wasn't sure that she was going to be attacked. For all he knew he was just paranoid; reading bloody writing on the wall and taking it as true. Fingers trembling, he watched as she sat on her bed, unscrewing a nail polish bottle. Painting her nails delicately, she hummed softly to herself. She must not have known what happened to Richard, at least not yet. Blowing quietly on her nails, she put her nail polish away, once again walking close to Henry, making him flinch away. Eileen stopped short suddenly, as if noticing something. He saw as she walked slowly over to her window, elbow cradled in her hand. Soon she was out of his sight, and not likely to wander back. Henry pushed away from the hole, anxious. Unable to relax any longer, he stepped into his bathroom, preparing to go through another nightmare.

The first thing he noticed was that his vomit was gone, flushed down the toilet like nothing had happened. Jiggling the handle to find that it was still broken, Henry scratched the back of his head, stumped. Just as he was about to ignore it and go through the hole, he saw something glimmer in the depth of the toilet bowl. Craning his neck forward, he tried to see what it was. Failure in doing so showed that he had no choice but to reach in and get it.

Shuddering Henry turned away. He was definitely not brave enough to do it. Monster dogs, moths, and twin monsters he could handle, possibly because it was for sheer survival. Toilet fishing was never going to be his strong suit. Things like that he left to a plumber.

Henry examined the hole. It was definitely not made by a human of any sort. It was getting even bigger and rounder, and the pattern around it was familiar yet still incomplete. Of course he had seen that red pattern painted around the holes of the other worlds, but something about it reminded him of something else he had looked at. After a while of thinking without coming up with an answer, Henry went inside the hole, wondering where it would lead him next.

--

Groggily Henry awoke, the grated floor he was laying on biting into his skin, particularly his cheek. Making himself get up quickly, he shook the deadweight feeling off, silently noting that each new world he entered had a harder hit on his body. Ignoring the dull ache from the arrival he stood up in a red hallway, seeing a man in the distance. Even though the angle he was standing at made him strain to see, he saw that the man dressed in a huge coat was standing in front of a door.

A door that clearly said '303' above a peephole.

Henry jerked when he realized he was standing in what was his apartment building. Before he let his eyes explore he kept them focused on the man. He couldn't see his face, as it was lowered, but he could almost feel his expression as he lifted a hand up and knocked on the door.

It was a slow knock, ominous and, quite frankly, a little bit scary. His knuckles hit the door multiple times, as if expecting the tenant of room 303—no doubt Eileen—to answer. Curiously though, as soon as he was done knocking, the man only stood there for a second before turning and walking away, his steps patient and knowledgeable. Henry watched as he turned the corner and left the hallway through a big metal door before allowing himself to whisper out loud.

"It looks like my apartment…What the hell is this?" Henry looked about the decrepit walls, noting how they resembled the inside of the creatures he had to dissect in biology class. (He hated that class.) Backing up slightly, he nearly tripped over a rusted, destroyed bike. Stumbling to regain his balance, he caught himself on the door of room 301. In the real world 301 was unoccupied, and it wasn't that big of a surprise to Henry when the door opened. He didn't exactly expect it to open though, so he almost lost his balance again entering the room. Brushing himself off, he sighed heavily and looked down at the floor.

His eyes were met by a picture of a _very_ naked woman sprawled out on a bed, her breasts causing the illusion that the picture was bulging. Before he could really look away he saw another picture on the cover of a magazine, yet again a sparsely clothed woman in a seductive pose. Henry blinked, then stared in amazement at the pile—no, the _mountain_ of porn magazines that were pushed up against the TV. In the cabinet underneath the TV were indeed, porn videos.

Fiddling absently with his collar, Henry turned around to the coffee table. On it was a diary and blank red slip of paper, not unlike those he got underneath his door. Deciding on a whim that he'd stick it underneath his door himself, Henry pocketed it and read to the diary.

_The last few months, Joseph, the guy next door to me who gave me that rare porn magazine, looks like he's been working super hard. He said if he found another rare one, he'd give it to me but he hasn't shown his face around much lately. He said he was a journalist and he is always investigating stuff. But I think something strange is going on with him. He's been shut in his apartment and I can hear all these weird noises coming from there._

_July 1 – Mike_

_Oh my beautiful Rachael, what's with the note on the red paper? I thought you'd written a note back to me…But I guess maybe it was somewhere else…He took it along with my clothes. Those were my best clothes._

_July 2 – Mike_

Henry felt sympathy to the journalist Joseph from the first entry. He guessed that he was the exact same man that had been giving him red diary pages through some sort of otherworldly force. The second entry was a little more confusing, but probably important nonetheless. Sometimes, he had found, the strangest of words were the best of advice.

Reminded of Jasper, he gathered up Mike's diary, taking the important pages and stuffing them in his pocket. The entire book did not fit anywhere on him and it would be quite inefficient to carry it around with him. Henry left the living room and headed down the grime-covered hallway, the walls replaced with iron bars. There were two rooms open—one that was more of a single person cage than a room, and another that was also stacked with, yes, porn. Feeling a distant sense of unease, he directed his attention to the walls, where vibrant black and red pictures hung loosely on nails.

The first picture looked a lot like the superintendent, Frank Sunderland. He had been here since the building was built of course, it shouldn't have been that odd. It was a little hard to recognize him because he looked so young. His hair was dark and his face hadn't yet been worn with worry and sadness. Henry thought it was sad in a way. He figured the disappearance of his son and daughter-in-law had a big impact on him.

The head of his axe accidentally brushed on the picture's side. Before Henry could know it and stop what was happening, the picture toppled from its nail to the floor. Fumbling madly for it even as it hopelessly tumbled from his fingers, he winced as it made a solid sound dropping to the floor, as if he was a guest at a house and he had just made a big mistake. Skipping backward as the picture landed on his foot, he saw something strange as it fell forward, exposing its back. Taped to the cheap cardboard backing was a key. Peeling it off, taking a thin shred of cardboard with it, he replaced the picture and looked at the key. 105 was scrawled into it, resembling the key he had for 302. Rubbing the dust off of it, he put it in his pocket. On the adjacent wall was a similar red and black picture, this time a photo of a nurse he did not recognize.

Scrawled on the photo with a fat sharpie were the words 'I love you.' Having a hunch he lifted the photo off of the nail, finding a key on the back. Taking it, he saw it was a locker key for room 106. Replacing the photo he saw a magazine lying open on a table—and not a porno magazine either. Stepping over the stacks of magazines that did sport such nudity, he read the article that the page was turned to.

_Teaching Despair: "Wish House"_

Henry paused before reading more. _The orphanage from that forest?_

"_Wish House," an orphanage on the outskirts of Silent Hill. But behind its false image is a place where children are kidnapped and brainwashed. Wish House is managed by the "Silent Hill Smile Support Society," a charity organization sometimes called "4S." It's true that 4S is a well-respected charity that "takes in poor children without homes and raises them with hope."_

_But at its heart, it is a heathen organization that teaches its own warped dogma in lieu of good religious values._

_Mr. Smith (temp), who lives near "Wish House," had this to say: "Sometimes at night I can hear their weird prayers and the sounds of (children) crying. I went there to complain one time, but they ran me right out. Since then, it hasn't changed a bit." In fact, this reporter was refused admission when he attempted to take photographs in the facility. What exactly do the folks at "Wish House" have to hide?_

_During my investigations, I was able to discover, however, a suspicious looking round concrete tower which appears to be part of their facilities. Unfortunately no one was willing to tell us what the tower was used for. But it seems unlikely that it has anything to do with the business of raising orphans. It may in fact be a prison, or a secret place of worship. The cult religion that operates "Wish House" is known by the locals simply as "The Order." It's a religion that is deeply interwoven with Silent Hill's history. But its worshippers' fervent belief that they are among the elite "chosen people" has a dark and dangerous side._

_I intend to continue my investigation of "Wish House" and the cult behind it. I've always believed that "telling the whole truth" and showing the children the true path, is our most important duty._

_Joseph Schreiber_

Henry had more than a few pieces of evidence to conclude that this Joseph Schreiber was the man who had been giving him the red diary notes. The writing style was very similar, as well as the fact that the man named Mike mentioned something about a man named Joseph living in Henry's room before him. Rolling up the magazine, he put it in his back pocket. Gingerly stepping around the centerfold displaying a fantastic naked lady—Henry wouldn't lie—he left the room. Stepping out in the hallway he walked down into the living room, met with a headache. Grasping his head, he looked in disbelief as a ghost—the elderly lady one from the subway—floated in the kitchen. Henry exited into the main hallway before she could start pursuing him.

Heaving a huge breath, he walked down to room 302, seeing that it, unlike the rest of the apartment, was painted its normally dull colors as well as still having the checkerboard linoleum bordering the bottom of it. The boy, Walter Sullivan, was standing in front of the door, knocking on it almost furiously. He was asking for his mother to let him in. When Henry approached, however, he disappeared. Stepping over the random dog corpses littered about, he figured it wasn't that big of a deal—he had vanished once and was bound to do it again. Reaching the door, he jiggled the handle out of false hope, expecting it to be jammed. Just as he thought, of course. He bent down and took the blank red sheet out of his pocket, slipping it in the crack of the door next to another red note. Standing up, he looked down the hall, reminded of Eileen.

Spurred into a light jog, he came up to her door, turning her knob. It was locked. Henry stood in front of her door. What was that guy doing there? Was he the next victim? Or could it be…

Gulping, he gathered up his courage and raised his hand. Softly he knocked on her door, rapping quietly with the knuckles on the back of his hand. Swallowing hard he called, no, _whispered_ at the room number that was staring back at him.

"Eileen…?" He paused and knocked again, "It's your…," _It's your neighbor, Henry. Townshend, yeah. I've been locked in my room for a while and I think you're in danger and I'd like for you to stay with me so you won't get hurt._

Yeah, right, he was going to say all that. Very quietly he murmured a 'nevermind' to the glaring numbers on the door, turning on his heel and walking away. After a few paces he cursed himself and broke out into a run. He didn't bother checking the doors along the way; he knew that most likely they'd be locked. Only having two keys with him, he knew that there was only one place to go. Directly to the super's room. He exited the hallway through the door to the main stairwell. Sitting on the blood-spattered stairs was the man in the coat.

His hair was blonde, but so grimy from oil and filth that it was somewhat hard to tell. In his hand he held a worn yarn doll, probably once loved dearly by a little girl. The white of the doll's face had grayed from use. The man in the coat seemed to sense that Henry was there, because as soon as he started to descend the steps the hand with the doll rose up, showing him the expressionless face sewn into the yarn.

"I got this from Miss Galvin…a long, long time ago…," The man had a young voice that suggested that his mind was definitely elsewhere—a _bad_ sort of elsewhere too. He looked at Henry with big, light green eyes. Henry stiffened when he saw his face and lapels splattered with fresh blood. The man didn't seem to care about his reaction as he kept on talking, shaking his head.

"She was younger than me back then…," The man took individual strands of black yarn that portrayed the doll's hair, stroking them with care, "She looked so happy, holding her mother's hand…," The man glanced up at Henry, setting the shabby doll on the seat next to him, "Here…I'll give to you…,"

Henry's chin touched his collarbone as he stared down at the doll. Eileen was once the little girl that cherished the doll so. And somehow, she passed on the doll from her care to the blood-splattered man with the coat.

And somehow, Henry didn't like it. It had a strange, tattered aura about it. It seemed innocent enough, but he had a feeling it contained a bombshell within. With some guilt Henry left the doll on the steps. Thankfully the man didn't stare at him as he left, alleviating more possible guilt. He got to the landing and turned his head around, only to see the man gone.

_She looked so happy, holding her mother's hand…_

Following the staircase all the way down, he walked up to the small table. The light from the lamp illuminated the personal mail lockers for the tenants. Fishing for the 106 key, he took the small thing out and inserted it into the lock.

Letters upon letters that were overflowing the locker were finally set free, scattering about the floor. Henry stepped back, waiting until they had all settled down before crouching down to read the envelopes.

_I love you Rachael…Mike._

Every letter in there was a love letter from Mike to Rachael. Henry was beginning to wonder if Rachael loved Mike back, or if he was a stalker. There were multiple mountains of porn in his room, Henry didn't believe a girl fell easily for something like that. Leaving the letters where they were, he tried the door to the outside. No such luck. He felt no disappointment—he was getting used to it. Entering the door that led to the hallway where room 105 was, he prepared for the worst.

The kitchen was barred off. Apart from that this room was slightly less decrepit than Mike's and the entire building. Walking forward next to the book case, a sharp, stinging smell pierced his brain, nearly bringing tears to his eyes. Avoiding the book case, he located the smell, noticing it came from a small, red box. Leaving that alone he turned to Frank's desk. Four small TVs sat on it. The top two were labeled 'parking lot', while the bottom were simply labeled 'front.' An open box on a case next to the desk held red paper. He took the two pieces even though one was torn and put them in his pocket. Next to that box was a hastily scribbled note. Henry couldn't read some parts of it, it was so sloppy.

_Found by Nurse Rachael. Return it to Room 302…together with the part. Her boyfriend (Mike?) tore off…_

Leaving the note where it was, Henry looked up at the wall, brightening up when he saw a key ring with lots of keys hanging from it. Taking it off the hook he fished through them. His heart sank though when he found room 303's key to be missing. Figuring he was up for another long journey, he put the keys away in his shirt and went down the hallway into Frank's bedroom. His bed was covered with quite an ugly green quilt. It had the sense of age and smelled somewhat of must. Still Henry sat on it as he took the diary up from the end table, reading the entry it was open to.

_The red box seems even stranger today. It's giving off a terrible smell. It's disgusting, but I just can't throw it away. It must have been around thirty years ago. That young couple was living in the apartment, but one day they just suddenly disappeared. Ran off just like thieves in the night. I don't know why. It must have been money troubles, or maybe they got themselves into some kind of danger. The problem came after that. They left their newborn baby when they took off. I even found the umbilical cord. I called the ambulance right away and I heard the baby survived, but I don't know what happened to him._

_Although a few years later, I often saw a young kid hanging around the apartment. One day he just stopped coming by. But now that I think of it, I'll bet he was that abandoned baby. It's a horrible story. Abandoning a newborn baby…That all happened in room 302…And the umbilical cord I found there…Well, I can't seem to get myself to throw it away._

Henry tore out the pages and stashed them.

_Say…you look a lot like a little _punk_ that I once caught sneakin' around there…_

Somewhere in the back of his mind, things were becoming clearer. He still thought it was incredibly strange for Frank to keep the umbilical cord for what was it? Thirty years? That must've been what the red box was. He was right. It smelled _terrible_.

Leaving the super's room he walked over to room 106. It was surprisingly empty with a hypnotic pattern on the wall. There was nothing much here at all. Heading down the hallway, he entered the bedroom. On a bed with no mattress and broken springs was a nurse's dress, the name on the lapel saying 'Rachael.' Lying next to the uniform was a portable first-aid kit. Seeing that as extremely useful while the supplies lasted, he grabbed it and turned to the table pushed to the side. A phone was set on it, with a notepad next to it saying '_My darling's number_.' Pressing the keys, he could hear, very, very faintly, a phone ring in the distance. Tapping the table a few times, he left.

The 04121 ghost met him in the nurse's living room. He bolted through the door before it could do anything once again. Sooner or later he had to figure out what was triggering all these random appearances. Rubbing his eyes, he decided that the next hole he found he would be going into.

Another ghost began to slime out of the wall when he re-entered the hallway. Henry pushed himself into a run before it could completely tear away from its confinement, and entered room 107. He almost groaned when he saw the 04121 ghost again, floating in the middle of the living room. Quickly scanning the room with his eyes, he hoped that nothing important was in here, because he wasn't going to stay. All he saw were lots of music records and a turntable. Henry left the room just as the ghost hit him across the back with a trowel. He cried out in pain just before he managed to close the door. Shoulder blades throbbing, he ran down the hallway, having checked every room there was. It wasn't long before he was pursued by another ghost. Trying desperately to ignore it his feet padded wetly on the ground in a sprint, kicking up bits of red as he went.

Panting hard, he slowed to a stop as he hit the lobby. Feeling a lukewarm liquid dribble down his back, he looked up, seeing a hole in the lobby wall. Thankful, he approached and entered it, not willing to run all the way back up to 302 to slip the notes he had under the door. His shoulder blades weren't happy with him as he clambered through. They'd be healed soon enough.

--

Grateful that the pain on his back was ebbing away, Henry left his bedroom to go check the notes under his door. As soon as he left the hallway a strange puttering sound interrupted his steps. He waited until it sputtered and died off before he poked his head out into the main room, looking for the source of the sound. Finding no evidence of anything that had been moved, he turned to the broom closet. Apprehensive, he opened the door. It was a rather big broom closet for an apartment, but it suited him just fine as extra storage space for miscellaneous tools, a tank of oil, and his washer and dryer. In fact, the first thing he saw was his dryer, the door wedged open. Henry stood in the doorway, staring in a distant sense of horror.

The dryer had spewed blood everywhere, soiling the carpet, walls, and, as Henry gingerly pried the door open further to see the damage, his clothes as well. He had some clean clothes in the hamper, and some in his closet in the bedroom, but it wasn't that much.

A thought jarred him in his chest as he saw blood spots on a cardboard box. Suddenly frantic he tore the box open, biting his lower lip. If what he had in this box was ruined, _he'd_ be ruined. Flinging the spattered foam packaging carelessly behind him, he dug down until he found what he was looking for.

Relieved beyond belief, Henry removed several untouched manila envelopes from the box, as well as a few film canisters with used film and some that were still new. The envelopes carried several pictures he had recently developed. Carefully handling every item from the box in his hand so they wouldn't get dirty from the blood off of _his_ shirt, he reached in and pulled the last item out of the box, inspecting it carefully as he did. There was his camera—his backup camera in case the old one he inherited from his grandfather broke. He had bought it himself as a little present for graduating college. Still he used his grandfather's camera most of the time; that one was packed in his plastic armored briefcase in his room. Cradling everything in his hands as if it were a newborn baby, Henry left the closet and headed for his bedroom. The box it was in was soaked on the bottom as well as being splattered—it was now rendered useless for its purpose.

Opening the drawer on his end table, he carefully piled everything into it, setting the camera on the table since it didn't fit. Feeling a small sense of happiness in knowing that nothing had been harmed, he returned back to the front hallway, crouching down and taking the notes from underneath the door.

_I figured out the riddle behind the numbers. '01121' is actually '01/21.' In other words, one out of twenty-one. So Walter was planning on killing twenty-one people…? But he never finished the job. He was convicted for the murders of Billy and Miriam Locane, the seventh and eighth victims. Afterwards, he committed suicide in his jail cell. The grisly mass murder of ten people shocked the world and came to be known as the 'Walter Sullivan Case.'_

_There are two big puzzles here. The first is: What was the motive for the murders? The second is: Why did he kill himself before completing his task? Was he simply insane…?_

_May 2_

Henry stared at the paper long after he was finished reading. Someone had definitely been carrying out what Walter had started long ago. Cynthia had been the sixteenth victim, Jasper the seventeenth, Andrew the eighteenth, and Richard the nineteenth. In fact, the strange murders that Walter had started were almost complete. Whoever was finishing the job for him was just as ruthless—if not more—than Walter himself. And still there was what Andrew had said in his cell. He _knew_ a man named Walter was going to kill him, and he cowered before the little boy bearing the name Walter Sullivan. But from the way Joseph wrote, he talked as if Walter was a grown man. There weren't just two puzzles here, but _many_. Uncountable, even. Henry picked up the next note and continued to read.

_It was four years ago that they discovered the body with '12/21' carved into it. Right away I had this terrible feeling and couldn't stop shaking. The victim had been murdered six months earlier, but Walter had been dead for seven years, having committed suicide three years before the murder. The police think it's a copycat crime and are calling it the Sullivan Case Round Two. But something about it bothered me…_

_May 14_

Folding the two pieces of the red diary together, Henry kept them in his hand as he stood up. Before he put them away in his scrapbook, he crossed the living room to the wall, wanting to check on Eileen before he left. He sat there in front of the hole and waited. After a long time a sense of fear gripped him. He didn't see her at all. Could something have happened to her?

On the edge of panic, Henry returned to his room, unloading his pockets of everything he collected for the scrapbook. Placing them properly in there, he noticed his hands were slightly shaking. To keep his mind off of it, he decided that he simply had to move forward, and entered the bathroom.

Placing the portable medical kit in the shelves where the hydrogen peroxide used to be, he took in a deep breath to calm himself. Ignoring the glimmer in the toilet, he entered the hole, hoping that Eileen was safe and possibly already at the party she had been preparing for.

--

Stretching his limbs out when the hole placed him in the lobby, he continued to search the first floor. When he entered the last hallway, he was surprised to find a living dog pacing around, as if waiting for him. Raising the axe, Henry found it quite simple to take the dog down if he gave it his best swing. He liked the axe, it made combat with the monsters less dangerous and long. Still, he was thankful that someone had killed most of the dogs that had inherited this world. All the corpses proved that. Taking out the key ring, he entered room 104.

Across the cell-like room he saw four, no six moths crawling along the wall. Readying himself, he waited until they came to him, buzzing angrily. They had swarmed him easily, but he didn't have trouble in disposing of them. Finding nothing else in this room, he went back out into the hallway.

Room 103 held nothing for him, just a cordless florescent light that gave somewhat of an eerie glow. Before he could venture further down the hallway he was met with another dog that was taking care of quite quickly. Upon entering room 102 he saw a horde of white slugs crowding around the refrigerator. Along with the slugs came a familiar rotting smell. Wrinkling his nose as he stomped the colony of slugs, he approached the fridge, distastefully reminded of his awful nightmares. Opening it up wide, he looked on in pity at what he saw.

Wrapped up in torn, bloody jeans was a furry dead body. Closer inspection revealed it was a creamy tabby cat. In the pocket of the jeans that was near the cat's head was a torn piece of red paper. Feeling sad more than sick, he eased the paper out of the pocket. Finding nothing else in the room he left, having one room left to check.

The first thing he noticed in room 101 was that there was a shotgun lying on the counter. Henry's eyes widened, but further inspection just proved that it was a model, along with every other gun in the room. Disappointed, he picked up a box of pistol bullets when the 04121 (or 04/21) ghost appeared right next to him. Once again Henry got hit with his trowel, this time in the ear. A bolt of pain accompanied the spray of blood. Something felt oddly loose, and Henry clasped a hand to the side of his head, running down the hallway into the gun fanatic's room. There was nothing there but books on guns, but something had been written on the back of a hunting magazine. Henry read it quickly, pressured by the ghost that was ever so slowly creeping up on him.

_My eyes and skin are so itchy! That stupid cat next door made my allergy to crazy. I was so pissed off, I took my converted model gun and blasted away at the thing at point blank range. It was way cool. The thing just dropped like a stone._

_By the way, that revolver that Richard in 207 carries…it's the real thing. That guy's dangerous…_

Henry put the magazine down just in time to narrowly avoid another swing from the trowel. Keeping low he just managed to avoid the ghost, able to squeeze his way out of the gun fanatic's room. It made him felt sick. If he never had to go in there again, Henry would be happy.

Leaving the first floor, he climbed up the stairs. On the second floor landing the ringing phone was loud, somewhat annoying even. Deciding that he wanted to slip the pieces of paper under his door first, he ran all the way up to the third floor. He was planning on a straight arrow mission to his door and back, but something made him stop dead in his tracks right outside room 303.

Frantic pounded smothered the door, accompanied by the occasional cry from Eileen. The door rattled as she pounded, but it seemed as though she was hopelessly trapped, like Henry. Though her cries were muffled they were obviously loud and afraid. The thing that bothered Henry the most was that she wasn't screaming out comprehensible words or shouts for help. It was as if she had been handicapped, gagged even. The pounding was endless and useless. There was no way for her to get out.

Grasping the key ring in his hand so hard he almost cut his palm, he sank into a pool of desperation. He did not want another dead body on his hands, he did _not_ want to witness another innocent person die, he did _not_ want to remain helpless as another person fell victim to a serial killer. Even though he knew it wouldn't work, he tried the keys. Every key, from room 302's to the super's key, didn't work. Henry had a short moment of rage and quite audibly cursed. As if it was in response, Eileen cried out desperately. Shutting up, Henry pressed his body against the door, sweat beading on his forehead. Nothing was working. Sooner than he'd like, the rattling of the door stopped, and room 303 fell quiet.

"Eileen…?" Henry called just as quietly as before. When there was no answer, he felt a sense of failure and stepped back, shoulders hung low.

"Eileen…,"


	11. Chapter 11

_Heh, wow, two chapters in one day. I been workin', man. Because I was excited! Eileen gets attacked! Henry is like "I AM SAD GO AWAY"! And next is my favorite! Hospital World!! Oh GOODY!!!_

_This would've been uploaded earlier, except my dad's like "WE'RE GOING TO A TWO-BIT BLUES CONCERT" and I was like "BUT I'M ALMOST DONE" and he's like "TOO BAD." Now I don't mind blues, but this was two-bit and repetitive. It was fun at first, until it started getting repetitive. And then we got home late because dad liked how it was repetitive. And I complained about how it was repetitive. And then I was like "WOW I am speaking in repetitive." It was quite repetitive.  
_

_The ending to this chapter is almost like multiple endings smashed together into one. I apologize. :I_

_

* * *

_**Silent Hill 4: Chapter 11**

Slipping the blank red notes under the door, Henry stood up, staring down the hallway at Eileen's door. Walking slowly down the hallway, he felt a heavy rock in his stomach, weighing him down. Checking room 304 before he left for the second floor, he did his best to push his mind from Eileen.

The room would've been charming if it didn't resemble a dirty jail cell. A cold pot of tea had been left out at a table set for two, and the room was finely decorated with floral print and homey objects. Hidden away in the bedroom, though, Henry found another box of bullets for his pistol. He stored it in a pocket with the others—something he had forgotten to put away on his return trip to the apartment. Without looking at room 303, Henry left the third floor.

Not thinking about which direction he was turning, Henry ended up entering room 205 first on the west wing. There wasn't a whole lot of interesting things in this room—it was stuffed to the brim with old video game machines, computers, and various books on electronics. Henry didn't have any idea of what they really did, he wasn't a 'gamer' really. It was just never one of his interests. On the coffee table, however, was a cassette tape. What brought his attention to it was the fact that it was labeled 'Skinned Mike.' Henry picked it up, curious. It was a home-made tape, with an emblem that suggested a personal tape recorder. Mike had been skinned? He had talked about how his best clothes had been taken, for sure, but was he really _skinned?_ By Richard?

As soon as Henry dropped it into his shirt pocket a ghost emerged from the hallway. Slightly fed up but still afraid, he left the room to nearly be bowled over by a mutant dog. Finishing it off with a few axe hits to the head, he spotted another dog not too far away down the hall. He waited until it approached him before killing it. Stepping around the two fresh corpses, he continued on to room 206.

Tripping over a child's block toy, Henry danced around the floor until he found a footing that _wasn't_ involved with kid's toys. Kicking a few trucks aside, he looked around. Nearly everything that could ever have to do with raising children of all ages was scattered everywhere, from toys to bottles to pacifiers to schoolbooks. Childish handwriting was crammed on the walls, squashed so tightly together with such sloppy penmanship that it made Henry's head swim. He turned to the hallway to find a dog lying down, watching him with sightless eyes. Henry raised the axe and crushed it before it could stand, not willing to take any crap. He entered the room the dog had been guarding, almost unable to move around from how cramped three bunk beds had made the room. Finding nothing of importance (he hoped) in this room he, he exited and moved into what he assumed to be the parent's room. Another dog was in there, walking about and unsuccessfully finding the door. Its life had ended shortly there after.

He didn't like this room. Here, the child's graffiti wasn't blocked with as much stuff, and had the full ability to make him feel sick and claustrophobic. Soon he left 206 to itself, having found nothing useful.

The next room he had to go into was room 207, Richard's room. Right before the door was a pair of torn jeans, bloody and with some animal hair stuck to them. Henry guessed that the hair belonged to the cat that was in room 102. Using the apartment keys, he entered Richard's room, seeing a messy trail of blood. The trail led all the way to a bloody wastebasket, where a pair of boxers were soaked and discarded along with a torn shirt sleeve. Looking up from the garbage, Henry's chest tightened.

The chair where Richard had been mercilessly electrocuted sat there, empty and without any charge. On the seat was Richard's prized revolver, not a speck of blood or dirt on it. Feeling wrong, Henry picked it up, tucking it in his waistband. It was true that he figured that he needed it now more than Richard, but somehow it didn't feel right.

Walking down the hallway, he entered the bedroom. The walls had changed from a green and white diamond pattern to a brick pattern. It was slightly uncomfortable to Henry, but as long as he only kept the wall in his peripheral vision he didn't entirely mind. In his room he found a golf putter. It could possibly come of some weak use to him at some point, so Henry took it, axe in one hand, putter in the other. He was done with this wing now, there was only the east wing to cover and then, hopefully, he'll be done—meaning that he'd have found Eileen's room key. With any luck, he wouldn't be too late.

The phone was ringing so loud now Henry almost had the urge to cover his ears because it was annoying.

Room 204 had a lot of cooking tools—so much so that it was almost a shrine to cooking. Every hallway was blocked off, so there was nothing else for Henry to do. He exited back into the east hall to be confronted with a ghost. Avoiding it rather easily, he slipped into apartment 203.

On the far wall a ghost began to push its way through. Henry kept an eye on its progress as he walked around the vast amount of alcohol bottles and beer caskets. He didn't need to look at any of them, and didn't want to. He had seen his share of alcohol back in the day. His childhood wasn't crappy, but it wasn't sentimental either. Making his way through the water-damaged hall, he kept two steps ahead of the ghost. In the bedroom was a severely blood-stained white shirt, not unlike the light blue one he was wearing now. Hell, even the bloodstains matched, sort of. In the front pocket was a torn red piece of paper. Henry transferred it from one pocket to the other, nearly ran into the ghost that was behind him, and retreated back out to the main hallway. He entered 202 before the ghost in the hallway could deter him.

There on the counter was a white corded phone. It was ringing madly, waiting for someone to answer it so it could stop its weary repetition. Tired himself, Henry decided to comply and picked up the phone. There was no one on the other line, so he put it back down again. It took a minute for him to remember why the phone was ringing, and then it dawned on him. The nurse back in room 106 had written down her darling's number, the person she was _really_ dating. Henry tapped the countertop.

Mike was quite the stalker.

Turning away from the phone, he examined the room. The shelves and table to the side were stuffed with art supplies, most of them well-used and well-loved. A giant canvas supported by an easel took up a portion of the left wall, while lots of finished paintings lined the sides, each with their own notes pasted to them. Henry went around and read them all.

First there was the painting of a young man, laid back with a friendly smirk on his face. The memo pasted to it said '_107. He listens to great music. But I feel sorry for him, having to live under Braintree…_'

The next one, two adults and a lot of children. '_206. How can they even sleep with so many noisy kids? Besides that, they have to live next to Braintree._' Henry blinked. Richard was quite infamous around these parts.

There were two paintings side by side, one of a man holding a brush. The memo simply said 'self-portrait.' The other painting was one of a plain-looking nurse. '_106. My beautiful darling. Lately she's been bothered by a stalker._'

Skipping over the canvas, he looked at the next one, a picture of a rather plump, jolly-looking woman. '_204. She's always eating something. But I wish my girlfriend liked to cook like her…_'

An old couple was next. '_304. A nice, sweet old couple._' Next to the old couple was a painting of a middle-aged woman cradling a cat in her arms. '_102. She loves cats too much and missed her chance to get married. I kind of felt sorry for her while she was mourning for one of her dead cats._'

Interested in learning more about the tenants, he crossed the room into the hallway where more pictures lined the walls. Something old in Henry stirred when he looked at the painting of the man holding a bottle of brandy. '_203. He's so noisy. I wish he would stop all that drinking and fighting._'

Henry turned around to see what must have been Richard Braintree. He was a heck of a lot younger, with only a few gray hairs in a thick black growth. It was then that Henry realized that, with all the other old stuff he had seen, he was in the South Ashfield Heights of the past. Somewhat. Frank, Eileen, and Henry's apartments were all recent. Or so he supposed. '_207. Braintree, that prick. He's always yelling at kids. Especially that weird one that hangs around. But he took Mike into his apartment and peeled his skin off, so he's my hero._'

It wasn't all the time that Henry liked to be perfectly frank even if he didn't like lying, but he didn't think he'd really ever call Richard his hero. He moved onto the next painting of a man with a gun. '_101. A gun maniac, he's always coughing from his cat allergy._'

Taking no time to dwell on that, he moved on to a picture of a man holding a…porn magazine. '_301. That perverted stalker…He got what he deserved!_' Henry coughed.

The next one was another young picture of the superintendent. '_105. Sunderland, the superintendent. The super mistakenly thought that Mike was Rachael's lover._' Believe it or not, Henry could easily see how Frank could do that. He moved on to the last painting of a man avidly playing video games. _'205. He's always shut in his room. It looks like he has lots of weird interests. I heard he tape-recorded Mike getting beaten up by Richard._'

Henry moved into the bedroom, which was stacked with lots of blank canvases. Taking a moment, he sat on the foot of the painter's bed. He was an artist, just like Henry. But unlike Henry, he got around. He knew people in the apartment building, and was even dating one of them. If _he_ had been the one to be locked in his room, it would definitely be known within a day or two. This painter was a hell of a lot more social than Henry could ever possibly be. The experience the last few days in his apartment had petrified him, especially after the hole in the bathroom appeared. If he had handled his relationships differently, maybe it wouldn't have to be so.

Making himself stand up, he cut his relaxation time short. As he left room 202, his imagination wandered.

'_302. A photographer. He's quiet and shy, I don't know much about him_.'

'_303. A nice, compassionate girl. She even got along with Braintree when he was alive._'

303. Eileen. In danger.

Henry didn't even bother to check room 201. There was no time left. He had to find Eileen's key somewhere, hell, even axe down her fucking _door_ if he had to. In fact, he should've done that a long time ago. Breaking out into a run, he dashed all the way up to the third floor. He stuck the last torn red paper under his door and, with a last glance at room 303, he trekked to 301, entering the hole. He needed a clue, a bit of advice. Right now, he was looking to Joseph.

--

As soon as he awoke on his bed Henry jumped up and out to the front hallway, momentarily dropping extra bullets and the golf putter off in his trunk. Seeing four tabs of red paper, he tore them all out, reading them in any order that suited him.

_I picked up the key that Eileen from Room 303 must have dropped. I thought I'd return it but she wasn't home. I guess I'll give it to the super._

_May 20_

_You picked up Eileen's key?! Where?!_ Henry began to scream in his head and fumbled at all the notes he had there with him.

_Oh yeah, I had a really wicked headache that day and just collapsed on the bed. Maybe if I look near the bed in my room – 302's bedroom – I'll find it. I get headaches every day now. It's terrible. What am I going to do?_

_May 22_

Henry tossed the torn paper aside and picked up another one.

_I lost the key to Eileen Galvin's room. I've gotta find it and bring it back. Let me think…The last place I saw it was…_

The piece of paper was ripped. Henry felt like screaming. The last paper he collected was so stained with blood it was hard to read.

_Rachael……love you…always watching…window……protect you…ith love, Mike._

Punching the floor, Henry nearly screamed like he felt he should. Frustrated beyond belief, he gathered up the notes he received from Joseph and sat in the living room. Taking the cassette tape out of his chest pocket, he popped it in his radio. He needed to calm down.

Richard's voice sneered through the speakers, "_How do you like that, you sick little freak? You had it comin' to you! These clothes are _disgusting. _Get 'em outta my sight!_"

A wimpy man's voice came on in response to Richard, trying to appeal to him, "_I know…It'll be perfect to wrap his body in…Hold it_,"

"_You!" _Richard snapped, "_You snoopin' around again?!_" The wimpy man talked, but Henry couldn't hear past Richard's voice, "_Get your ass outta here before you really piss me off!_"

"_Hold it, hold it, hold it, I think I'll keep that one for myself,_" The wimpy voiced man was slurred, as if drunk or beaten senseless. Henry couldn't make head or tail of what was really going on. The tape stopped abruptly. Henry left it in the player, staring uselessly at the notes. He fingered them, hope lost. He just needed to find Eileen's key…

Suddenly, on accident, he put two of the torn pieces together. Reading them over, some sort of joy leapt in his heart, and he dropped the notes, scrambling for the bedroom. Nearly leaping to the other side of the bed near the windows, he found exactly what he had been looking for. There, in an obvious spot, was a key with a doll keychain. Snatching it up from the floor, he looked at the engraving.

'_303'_

Wasting next to no time, he burst into the bathroom and crawled into the hole, key held tightly in hand.

_Please be safe._

For her sake, for her family's sake, and for Henry's sake, _please be safe._

--

Running out to the main hallway, he pumped his legs as fast as he could down to room 303. He had to be there. It was so goddamn important to him for reasons he didn't really know. He had just approached her door and was about to grasp the knob to turn the key when Eileen screamed.

Not just a scream. A scream of fear. A scream of pain. A scream of desperation, of ruined hope, of death.

Henry froze, then trembled uncontrollably. Steadying his shaking hand with another shaking hand, he put the key in the hole and turned. There was no plate on the door. Maybe that meant she was okay. He pushed the door open, biting his lip.

He stood there.

Just _stood_ there.

Stood there, because there was nothing he could do.

Eileen breathed hoarsely, her breaths labored and beaten. She was laid out flat on her stomach, her body twisted and beaten. Blood covered everywhere—her door, her walls, the hallway…Her body had smeared the blood deeper into the carpet from when she had recently dragged herself along to where the young Walter Sullivan stood indifferent. Henry could only stare, not at Walter, but at Eileen's back. Carved deeply and cruelly into her once-perfect skin were the numbers 20121. 20/21. Blood spewed from them like a gory fountain. It trickled down her skin in thin trails, mimicking bony fingers caressing her flesh. Her breathing suddenly rose in a crescendo as she continued to fight for her life fiercely, though when she spoke to the boy her voice was fraught with hopelessness. Raising her head through the little power she had left, she spoke to the boy in a ghastly whisper.

"Hey kid…," she reached a soiled hand for his tiny shoe, "Thanks…," The kid remained indifferent, watching as Eileen undulated weakly on the floor from the force of her breaths.

"Did you find your mommy…?" she asked, "This place…it's dangerous…you need to _hurry_…get _out_ of here…," Henry's eyes couldn't stop staring at her back, there was _so much blood_ just gushing out of the cuts. It was beyond horrifying.

Eileen shivered, her head lolling out of control. Henry's stomach tightened as her strength in her arms slipped. For a moment he thought she looked back at him and saw him standing there, watching in utter horror. Then her breath faded and she dropped to the ground. Dead.

Henry stepped forward, making short eye contact with the boy. The fear that was in his eyes before was replaced with failure, failure that spurred immense sorrow. Henry's vision blurred from unexpected tears, and he fell to his knees in the pool of Eileen's blood, nearly falling on his face. Throwing his arms out he stopped himself, his head dipped limply down.

_I asked you to be safe…_

Henry's breaths became unsteady past the lump in his throat. One more person had died, and they had died at what felt like his hand. Five people had perished with him as their witness. And now, kneeling at the fifth person's corpse, he felt more horrible than ever. Because, for some strange reason, she was a friend to him even if she never knew it. His feeble grip on reality had left him as she left this world, and as he blacked out he opened his mouth to scream.

--

_Why weren't you safe?_

Awaking with his eyes stinging, Henry clawed at the bed sheets as he stared at his ever-rotating ceiling fan.

_I failed to keep you safe._

Outside were flashing lights, sirens, police cars, ambulances. Lying perfectly still, Henry didn't want to look out the window. He couldn't take any more of this. No more. He had seen too many die.

If his life continued on like this, maybe he would want to die too.

Henry released the sheets from his tight grip. _My life._ There were so many innocent things he missed from it. He missed the blissful ignorance to the evils of the world, he missed the security of a home, he missed the comfort of a lazy day, he missed happiness.

His mind flashed back to when he had found Eileen sitting on the edge of her bed watching television. She had been laughing, _laughing_ for God's sake. And it kept him sane because she was still in the firm grip of the reality he used to know. Now the reality was gone, sucking her in and taking her away. Henry's chest tightened.

It was only a matter of time now before he would be taken away, lost to the insanity that Eileen had successfully guarded him from.

A door slammed outside.

The ambulance sped off.

_Eileen…_

Henry shuddered.


	12. Chapter 12

_Favorite world! Yay hospital! Least favorite opening cutscene! Nay demonic C-section! D:_

_I had a whole speech prepared for this chapter and now I can't remember it. I will say though, kudos to my friend HopelessIdiot, who is under that username both here and at DeviantART. Sometimes when I'm chatting with her I'll hand over some paragraphs-in-progress as I write, and sometimes she helps me catch things. Like how Henry sounded like he was in denial. And I didn't want him to sound that way._

_Also I am lovin' my AP European History class. I love it so much that uh...there's a bit of AP Euro stuck in here. Black Death? Oh yes._

_

* * *

_**Silent Hill 4: Chapter 12**

Henry blinked his red, weary eyes. He didn't cry. Not really. Everything had been held back. In fact, he didn't believe he _could_ possibly cry now. It felt as though his emotions were rendered useless. A long time had passed before he finally forced himself up and off his bed. Walking in a daze, he opened the cupboards in his kitchen, searching for something to eat or drink. It's not that he was hungry, no, it's just that something in his body told him that he should be eating. Glancing outside, he noticed the fading orange of the sky, indicating that sunset would soon give way to twilight.

The only thing he was surprised about his cupboards was that cobwebs were not spanning the corners. He had a few things of course; spices mostly, with some baking needs that wouldn't really count as food. Shutting the cupboards, he lightly pinched the bridge of his nose. He stood there for a while, his motivation moving very slowly. Breathing deeply, he took a little comfort every time his broken rib caused a small jolt of pain. It reminded him that he was still alive.

As he moved doggedly to the living room, he noticed something illuminated by the lamp. Squinting his eyes, he looked carefully at it. It wasn't like the wallpaper ripped, it seemed as though in that particular spot, just a little smaller than his palm, the wall boiled and bulged outward in a disturbing effect. Henry looked away quickly, trying to imagine it wasn't there. If it grew and started to resemble human features, he would start fearing for his _own_ life.

Muffled voices from the other side of the wall caught his attention. Crouching down, he pressed his face to the hole leading into Eileen's room. Or, he should correct himself, what _used_ to be Eileen's room.

He was met eye-to-eye with her pink stuffed rabbit—a slightly terrifying character Henry recognized as Lakeside Amusement's Robbie the Rabbit. It had been a long time since he'd visited the theme park on the edge of Silent Hill, and he vaguely remembered being disturbed by the happy pink mascot as a child. Now his old fear had returned as Eileen's stuffed animal stared at him, blood smeared on its smiling toothy mouth. Rapidly blinking he forced himself to get used to it. There were police officers and detectives conversing. His eyes, however, never left the rabbit lest it did something.

"So they took the victim to St. Jerome's, huh…," one man said.

"Yeah…she's not gonna make it…She had numbers in her back too," another responded, almost matter-of-factly. It was obvious he had been through many cases similar to this one. Henry had heard these voices before on the intercepted radio broadcast. He could only see their shadows as they moved about, sifting through personal evidence in her room.

"Walter Sullivan copycat, 'Round Three', huh…," the man continued. The first detective, presumably the chief, spoke again in response.

"Well, they never got the scumbag behind Round Two a few years back. Maybe it's the same guy,"

The chief's underling that had been speaking before raised his head and brought up an idea, making it sound as plausible as possible, "What if one, two, and three…what if they're all the 'same guy'?"

Roughly raising his voice in anger, the chief suddenly sounded ragged as he instantly shot down his underling, "_What_ the _hell_ are you talkin' about? You know Sullivan _killed _himself…!" The rage in his aura died down as a third voice, previously very quiet, spoke up. Henry recognized it as the voice that only spoke once after Cynthia had died. A hired hand, an experienced detective maybe. He had the power to shush everyone in the room with just a keen observation and his whispering deep voice.

"The weird thing is…there were no clues. Crime scenes were always spotless; no fingerprints, no fibers, nothing…Just the numbers '20121'."

The chief spoke up again, "Now I've been a cop for a long time, but I never seen a case like this one," he agreed, somewhat still roughly. He paused for a moment before continuing, finishing what the quiet detective was going to say. His voice dropped to a hushed whisper.

"It's almost like…," The shadow on the wall dipped its head down into its hand as it wiped the sweat away from its forehead, "…like they were killed by a ghost or something…,"

Silence filled the room, signifying that though the idea was ridiculous, it was the best explanation of what was going on. All men there realized that if this was true, the murder may never end. Quietly they shuffled out of the room, leaving Henry to stare cautiously at the pink toy. It looked like the rabbit was pointing at him, giving the innocent animal an eerie feel and purpose. His childhood mind disturbed, he pushed away from the wall and the living room in general. As soon as he did a thought struck his mind.

_So they're taking the victim to St. Jerome's Yeah she's not gonna make it she had numbers in her back too._

When Cynthia had died, the ambulance served as nothing but a hearse, staying still until the dead body had been placed inside. Even then as it drove away there were no lights or siren. She was determined dead at the scene. But when the ambulance took Eileen, both sirens and lights blared, parting the cars like the Red Sea as they rushed her to the hospital. Did that mean…?

A surge of adrenaline built from hope flooded his brain. In a sudden rush he dashed down the short hallway to the bathroom and threw open the door, ready to jump headfirst into the hole. He stopped shortly in shock, not from the smell, not from the blood, but from the stone. The hole's center had been blocked perfectly with cement. The crimson markings had faded to a grayed red, taking away the paranormal aura, keeping only the mystery. Staggering forward, Henry put a hand to the concrete, sweeping his fingers along it. It was perfectly smooth, as if it was poured by a master foreman. It was thick and most definitely not hollow. He was blocked off. Trapped. Again, and for good this time.

And Eileen, if she was alive, was very much still in danger.

Backing up out of the bathroom, he returned to the front hallway, grieved again. Two notes caught the corner of his eye, one an entry of the red diary and the other some kind of white paper, worn and with an intricate drawing resembling a tarot card. Henry picked them up.

The strange paper had a frightening kind of succubus on it, with text that suggested a talisman. He felt it burn his fingers as he tucked it behind the diary entry as he read.

_I don't think I can protect myself. He's truly insane. I can't hold on any longer. His power can't be measured. I was so scared today that I sealed off the back of the storage room._

_I wonder if Eileen Galvin is okay. She has no idea what's going on…But she's in danger nevertheless._

_July 13_

Standing up, Henry opened the door to the storage room before placing the papers in his scrapbook. Joseph had mentioned something about sealing off the back of it, and Henry was curious. Looking just above the blood that had splashed on the wall, he saw some sort of stain. The longer he stared at it the more it looked like a demon to him. Blinking a few times and readjusting his focus, he saw nothing more but a stain again. Ignoring the strangeness of it he glanced up to the corners of the wall, wondering if he could see the edges of where Joseph sealed the room off. Craning his neck upwards he pressed his body toward the wall. With as tall as he was he couldn't quite see the fine details of up above, even with the light from the rest of the apartment pouring in behind him. He stood on his tiptoes, wondering if there was a way to break the wall down and if there was something behind it.

Tripping slightly over a wrench on the ground, Henry caught himself against the wall, kicking the wrench aside. In his hands he held the red diary and the talisman. He tripped over more than just a wrench when the talisman activated the with demonic stain on the wall, pushing him backward as the wall changed, gaining an inscription and four depressions equally spaced away from the inscription, perhaps shaping a diamond. Henry, thrown back onto his butt, stared up at the thing in wonder, reading the inscription's elegantly prophetic writing.

"What the hell…?" Henry breathed.

_After he did the Ritual of the Holy Assumption, other worlds began to force their way into his universe and it began to swell horribly. But his universe is different than ours—it has limits. And in the limits of that universe, he rules as a king. And in the deepest part of his kingdom is his Mother._

Henry stood up, kicking the rest of his bloody tools and boxes away from the wall. In the four depressions words were inscribed beside the pictures. On the depression depicting a woman it said 'Temptation'; on the one depicting an eye it said 'Watchfulness'; the one with a baby read 'Source'; the one with an abstract design said 'Chaos.' Sorely reminded of his previous failures to help people survive, Henry left the storage room and opened the creaky trunk next to the TV, pushing away golf clubs and other miscellaneous items until he uncovered the stack of placards.

The spider that had resided in his trunk stood on top of them, unmoving. Its web was above it, though it showed no interest or connection with its home. Carefully Henry grabbed the plates and gently slid the spider off. It fell to the floor of the trunk with a small thud. Curious, Henry watched as it very belatedly struggled to right itself until it was standing again, the same way it was on the placards. Soon it decided to climb back up to its web, but it moved in a very drunken uncoordinated fashion. It took several trial and errors before it successfully reached its home, staying there as still as stone without predatory instinct. Knowing full well that its behavior did not come from the fall it took from the placards, Henry closed the trunk slowly, the back of his mind bothered.

The spider was sick.

Trying not to dwell on the well-being of an arachnid, he shuffled the plates until they were in order and stepped into the storage room. Taking in a breath, he had a brief sense of wonder hit him before he put each plate in its proper depression. Ranging in colors from rosy to bronze to yellow to purple, he perfectly placed each one until the depressions were all filled.

Henry shut his eyes immediately as a loud, low metallic noise broke through the moment he placed 'Chaos' into the last depression. When he opened them, a perfectly round hole bore into the storage room wall, descending into darkness. Crimson markings circumscribed it, running along with the placards to complete the spell. Children's voices and random screeches echoed within the hole, accompanied by a distant whirling noise he identified as wind. Picking the axe up he had dropped from the discovery of the talisman's purpose, he stared into the face of darkness.

He didn't know where it would lead him this time. Of course, he never knew. He only hoped that, if Eileen was okay, the hole would take him someplace near her so he could make sure that he wouldn't fail again.

Chilled to the bone, he was reminded of the pink rabbit in Eileen's room, and the blocked off hole in the bathroom. Somebody had wanted him trapped completely again, and by using the rabbit it was giving him a clear sign.

He was next.

--

Henry opened his eyes slowly. Above him was an industrial ceiling striped with pipes and cords. A round light that reminded him of the dentist office hung over him, turned off. As his vision cleared he saw that the light was more accurately one used at an operating table. There was a strange smell in the room as he slowly sat up. He had landed next to a hospital bed with a light blue sheet covering the top. Sitting up into an artificial glow, he looked over to a curtain. Like a shadow puppet someone was behind there, breathing heavily. Something squeaked as his hands dug into something, and Henry's eyes widened when he heard him digging sloppily through a body. Craning his neck to the side, he saw a pasty pale woman. With his bare hands, the shadow puppet man was sifting through her abdomen.

A gag caught in Henry's throat, causing a short squeak of breath to escape. Immediately the man stopped and turned. Still groggy, Henry watched in fear as the man rounded the curtain, revealing himself to be the one with the coat from the decrepit apartments. He was splashed with more than just blood this time. Gaining a sort of twisted smile on his face, he furrowed his brow over his insane eyes as he walked toward Henry, hunched like a panther ready to pounce.

Forcing his legs to move Henry stood up, nearly stumbling off balance. Hunching down himself he backed up, resembling a petrified deer more than a panther. Uneasily he stepped backward, his feet not moving as smoothly as the man with the coats'. The man eyed him in blood thirst as he approached, blood coating his hands. Henry backed up as much as he could before he quickly turned and exited the room through the wide hospital door, leaving the trapped, preyed-on feeling behind.

Finding himself in a dark hospital hallway, Henry let his heart rate calm down. Moths crawled across the floor with the help of their wings, not yet aware of his presence. The man with the coat did not follow him here, which gave him a sense of great relief. He was about to step forward and start exploring when a thought jolted him.

_That woman in there, who was she? She was real, and he was doing…doing God knows what—What if, what if that was Eileen?!_

Blindly, Henry turned on his heel and re-entered the room, axe at the ready this time. The man with the coat was gone, replaced by a decaying succubus. To be perfectly honest, she reminded Henry of a victim of the black plague. A boil bulged on one of her temples, rendering her blind in one eye. Another hideous boil writhed outward from her abdomen, mimicking some sort of parasitic pregnancy. In its small hand it held an operating instrument, and as Henry got closer it raised it up high, swinging it madly back and forth. Flinching, he was glad he already had his axe at the ready. Giving himself some space, he swung forward fiercely, managing to weave between the bizarre woman's swings, allowing himself to bring the axe down onto her collarbone. The woman collapsed with a guttural sound. Wasting no time he hurriedly crushed her sternum, smashing his feet between her breasts.

Standing over the corpse he leaned forward, staring at its face. It was hard to tell facial features of any sort aside from basic humanoid structure. Very tentatively he called out, sliding a foot forward.

"Eileen…?"

The corpse convulsed in a final death throe, then laid still. Henry flinched, and ultimately decided that it wasn't Eileen. He looked around the room, finding nothing but suspicious gurneys and tools that were far from sterile.

_That man…what in God's name was he doing here?_ Henry wondered, sickened. Finding nothing that he wanted in this room, he returned to the hallway, disturbing the moths from the floor. Taking care of them systematically with a few annoying injuries, he waited until every moth had been exterminated before he started to explore the hospital. A lot of doors were broken—ones that led to other hallways and out doors. _Figures_, he supposed. The next door he tried was open, leading into what vaguely resembled a pharmacy office. There were lots of medical things and pills that Henry had no idea about.

On a desk in the midst of other items scattered about was a paper cutting knife. It looked very similar to a box cutter, but the blade was thinner and weaker. Henry locked the blade in place so it was protected, and put it in his pocket for later handy use. He left through a different door that he came in, entering an office with an x-ray display board. Setting the axe to the side, he walked up to the display.

His body was silhouetted by the bright white light as he stared at the x-rays. He only paid attention for a moment before shifting his eyes elsewhere. A lot of the photos were from the crime scene. Chicken-scratch writing with dry erase markers covered the board, pointing to x-rays and pictures. Blood laced through most of them, and the x-rays weren't pretty; showing dislocations in her wrist, elbow, and damaged areas around the neck and skull. Various phrases like 'stretch', 'transfusion', and 'compound' were scattered about. The name Eileen Galvin was written as well, circled in red and repeated on a Polaroid photo of her face from the crime scene, spider-webbed with blood and unconscious in a way that unnaturally bent her neck. Henry was particularly fixated by the picture, fixated and saddened. Slowly falling forward, he caught himself on the display, leaning against it by his palms. The light inside it slowly buzzed, the screen warm yet not comforting.

Picking up the Polaroid by the edge of the picture, he leaned back against the x-rays, exhausted from worry. He stared at her pretty face, the jagged trails of blood on her cheeks like cracks in a marble masterpiece. Henry dropped his hand, letting the picture slip through his fingers. Raising his head to the ceiling he closed his eyes.

"Eileen…," he murmured. _Are you still alive?_

Judging by the x-rays, she shouldn't be. He didn't give the pictures a second glance as he walked away, leaving the dropped Polaroid on the ground. A note with very feminine handwriting was left on the desk in front. Stiffening in exasperation, he felt slightly ticked as he read the note.

_I lost Eileen Galvin's hospital room key. She was a patient brought in with severe injuries. I wonder if I left it in one of the other hospital rooms. I really hope not…_

He folded the note up and put it in his pocket regardless. Leaving the reception room, he continued on to another emergency room with toppled beds, the operating light crashed on one of them. Shuddering at the thought of Eileen being in one of these otherworldly rooms, he shut the door, seeing nothing for him.

An eerie feeling swept over him as he stood at the last segment of the hallway. There, on the ground, was a purple purse, dropped there by accident. It was a simple design but slightly refined. It was bought as an accessory and not an eye-grabber, that's for sure. However, it was grabbing Henry's eyes right now. Stepping up to it, he stared down before he reached to pick it up. The purple material used for the purse matched the purple of Eileen's dress. Picking it up, he felt the slight weight of the small bag. If it was swung hard enough at the right angle, it could do some damage.

Glancing into a tiled washroom that had a blood trail trickling down to the drain in the center, he saw a hole at the far end, convenient for future use. He moved on to the faculty leisure room, which only held baby charts. Old baby charts by the looks of it. He didn't really concentrate on them, too worried about finding Eileen. His mind was clouded so much by his worry that he walked right into the next room without caution—straight into the arms of two bizarre patients. Before he knew what was happening, the patients were beating him.

The solid weapons they were using cut and sliced his skin from the wires attached to it. He was soon beating to the ground, hunched in the fetal position to feebly protect himself. Gritting his teeth he forced himself not to cry out in pain, causing tears to replace his screams. Each time the patient swung down it not only bruised but caught onto his skin, in many cases ripping it. He tried to endure like that for a long time, waiting for the patients to tire out just long enough for him to make a comeback. But after a while, of course, he realized that these monstrosities simple could not tire out. Wincing and unable to hold back his cries, he ever so achingly slowly reached downwards toward his pocket. Able to wiggle his fingers inside, he grabbed the paper cutting knife between two fingers, starting to bring it out. The gun in his waistband would be even more hell to get—by the time he would reach it his hand would be so beaten he wouldn't be able to use it.

Just as he brought the knife up to his head so he could see what he was doing, a patient above took advantage of his head's vulnerability, and struck down.

Henry didn't know exactly what the feeling was, but it slightly felt like part of his skull had just caved in and straightened back out, rebounding like a piece of rubber. His forehead hit the floor as he lost his senses. In the distance he could still feel the pain of the beating. Right now he was drifting into unconsciousness. And it felt like heaven to do so. It felt like heaven to just leave everything, his pain, his frustration, his knowledge behind and just sit there in the darkness that was so comforting and devoid of fear. He wanted to just _forget_ this hell, right here and now.

(_Goodness Henry you're beet red! You have been for a while now, is anything wrong? Are you sick? Fever or something? What happened?_)

Something was bugging him. Something was bringing the pain back and keeping him with one foot set in hell and the other set in heaven. At the moment with the given circumstances, he wanted to shoot whatever was keeping him back.

(_Are you sure you're okay? Really? You look _awful_, has it been tough at work? I guess…Well, feel better, okay?_)

Henry's chest wasn't pressed up against the wet floor; something was separating his body from the tile. Groaning in pain as the patients continued to beat him, he shifted his hurting body, Eileen's purse moving with him in the process. As his mind came to with the help of an adrenaline surge, his heart pounded against the purse. Clutching the knife, he unlocked it and pushed the blade out. Scrunching his face he fought through the pain, now struggling to stay awake.

(_feel better, okay?_)

He remembered that day. That was the day his neighbor, Eileen, noticed that his face had been an unusual color for a few days. He didn't tell her of course, but it was all because of the wrong number he dialed—calling a phone sex line instead of the appliance repairman. In fact he was shocked and embarrassed that she had noticed. For a while he had been careful in avoiding her. Did he like her? Most certainly not in _that_ way—she and him, they were really not ones to talk to each other. Aside from that one incident with her concern about his health, they hadn't really chatted about…_anything._ Hell, not even the weather. It'd be hard to ever 'hit it off' as they say. Why in the world he was suddenly reminded of her concern at such a crucial moment he didn't know, but he was thankful—thankful that his anchor of reality hadn't quite left him yet; still coming in the same form as before. Henry reached out and sliced at the patient's feet with the knife, determined. The demons collapsed from the depth of the cut, stunned.

Taking the opportunity, Henry forced himself upwards in one smooth motion and crushed both of their spines. After they were dead, he fell to the ground again, weak. His axe and Eileen's purse lied where he had been crouched over, the purse having a few new stains of blood. He laid there, cheek pressed against the cool tile. Slowly he forced the pain to ebb away, leaving him as a quite literally broken man on the floor of a demented hospital. He closed his eyes and dozed, resting his muscles. Above all, he did _not_ allow himself to drift into any sort of slumber. When it got to the point where it was questionable if he could control his sleep pattern, Henry stood up, grabbing the axe and purse. Something placed on a shelf caught his eye. In a brown glass bottle was an ampoule, a bottle of morphine of some unknown potency. The needle was included in the bottle and everything, it was a grab-and-go sort of deal, similar to an EpiPen. Henry pocketed it. With as careless as he was getting, he was going to need something to help kill the pain somewhere along the road.

The last door he could enter was beside the questionably operational elevator shaft. Inside it was a stairwell leading up exactly one level. Climbing the stairs with little difficulty except pain, he entered through the door at the top. Immediately he was struck still like a deer in the headlights, the fear replaced with pure confusion.

Unoccupied wheelchairs raced up and down the long hallway. They rolled along at the speed of a running athlete, swiveling around in a quick wheelie to race in the other direction. Sometimes this happened at the end of the hall, but it was not guaranteed that the wheelchair would about-face there. Henry stepped out cautiously into the hallway, watching in perplexed awe as the wheelchairs moved about. He was so entranced that he didn't notice how close one had gotten to him. The only warning he received was a swift burning headache, then the wheelchair hit him at full speed.

Tossed off of his footing, Henry flew forward a few feet, landing disgracefully on his stomach. The wheelchair continued as if to run him over, stopped as if admiring its handiwork, then turned around almost in a glee-like fashion and continued down the hallway. As Henry picked himself up he watched as the batch of wheelchairs headed down the far end of the hall, the sound of their wheels fading down the length of the path. Feeling that his dignity was battered, he huffed out a breath and walked into the nearest door. The entire hallway was lined with lots of doors. He had a lot of exploring to do.

On the bed was a pile of skin surrounding a slab of rotting meat impaled with stakes. It smelled horrible to say the least. Packages of pills scattered about the place were unopened. Brief inspection led Henry to guess that they were simply lots and lots of Prozac. He didn't know really what they were, but he'd left things to guessing a long time ago. Given this crazy world it could be anything.

As nimble as possible in his state he dodged wheelchairs across the short span of hallway he needed to cross to get to the next room. A warm afternoon light greeted him. The room actually felt calm. On the end table a silver medallion was draped over the drawer. Henry picked it up and put it in his shirt, noticing the old etching of a saint on the medallion. Crossing the hallway again, he found his shoes literally stuck as he tried to walk on the floor. He moved very slowly, walking on goop that stuck to him like something that spilled from a middle school chemistry class. On the other side of the room was a box of pistol bullets. It took him a long time to reach them, but when he did they were relatively easy to pull off of the floor. Putting them away he walked back out. The goop from the room stuck to the bottom of his shoes temporarily, disabling him to walk quickly. This, in turn, ended up in him flying forward again as he got run over by another wheelchair. Silently cursing he got back up and rushed into the next room.

Henry nearly screamed when he saw the thing down the long room. A giant head that vaguely resembled Eileen filled up the entirety of the end of the room. Its breathing wheezed, though nothing about her face moved but the insane spasms of the eyes. The irises of the eyes were pale and glazed, as if indicating death. Veins that were not natural to the body spread out like tree roots on its face, red and infectious. Following him, the eyes twitched at a mad rate, keeping close watch of his movements. Fumbling for the knob, Henry opened the door and left the room, shivering. _That_ was not the Eileen he was looking for.

Directly across the hall the door was securely locked. Feeling an apprehensive emotion rise up in his chest, he made a mental note of the door and went into the next room. There were no items, just a room where they would put premature babies in plastic bins to keep them safe. Draped along the curtain rods was a massive pink cord. Henry examined it, refraining from touching it. Was it some sort of umbilical cord? That was one _hell_ of a cord if it was, it spanned around the entire room, and even then it was coiled up.

_This place is just fucked up, _he concluded in his head, continuing onwards. In the next room he was almost mercilessly impaled as the ceiling above him fell down, rusted iron spikes pointed downwards. The ceiling stopped shortly right before it crushed him, shuddering. He could feel the end of a spike tickling a few hairs on his head. Drawing in a shuddering breath, he watched as the ceiling slowly retreated upwards. There was a soft click, then a loud click. Getting the message Henry left the room just as the spikes fell again. Maybe it was a trick of his eyes, but it looked like he would've been stabbed if he had stayed there any longer.

Across the way Henry was blocked by debris to most of the room. In the spotlight was a cloth draped over a body, a child's version of the ghosts in bedtime stories. Seeing legs coming out from the bottom of the cloth, he looked above. He couldn't quite see everything, but the child-like ghost was swaying back and forth, as if hung. Blood pooled beneath the feet. Henry left, and returned to systematically checking rooms.

One had rain falling from the ceiling. A thin layer of water covered the tile, making it exceptionally slick. Ignoring the toadstools, he went into the next room. He supposed that it was supposed to be a sterile room, but looking through the plastic he had to wonder which one was sterile. A wheelchair greeted him in the next room, stationary and stable. It was empty, though if Henry looked at its shadow, someone was sitting in it. Cautiously he crept past the chair and peeked around to the bed in the corner. A green box of revolver bullets became his. Taking it, he was just about to leave when he saw the shadow in the wheelchair stand up. He waiting until it sat back down before leaving the room. He didn't want to take any chances.

Chains dangled from the ceiling across the hall, holding up a grated table. What resembled disembodied limbs and body parts had been precariously placed on the balanced table. The parts didn't seem entirely human, and they stank like hell. He was glad to leave.

Toadstools growing out of a man's dead body met him the next room. He disposed of them very easily with the axe. Gazing at the body, he almost recognized the corpse as himself. _Almost_. He was reminded of Eileen's Robbie the Rabbit, and how its chubby pink finger pointed at him. It was a clear reminder.

(_Remember you're next!_)

His mind was clouded so much with that faint sense of terror that he nearly got beaten to the fetal position again by the two patients that lived in the next room. Catching himself before they could hit him, he raised the axe and swung wildly. Giving his best swing, he caught both of them in one hit and they both crumpled to the ground. Henry stomped them before they could get back up. The first stomp snapped a neck, while the second one was done with such speed and instinct that he simply brought his foot down on the bloated abdomen. The sac exploded in a fit of hissing bile and acid, steaming and full of some sort of worm parasites. Retracting his foot Henry danced backwards from the acid, fully disgusted. He saw the worms wriggle about before they shriveled and died. In a sickened frantic motion he shook his foot, flinging the bile off of his shoe. Once he had gotten as much as possible off, he looked up.

On display was some kind of skin. It must've been fairly new, parts of it were still bleeding and it smelled really bad. Taking a look at the shape of the skin, he realized that it resembled a human back. Was it human skin…? He didn't stick around to try and figure it out, the smell from the spilled acid was starting to overpower the rotting flesh. Avoiding wheelchairs, he went into the next room.

X-ray pictures were littered on the floor. The first thing that came to Henry's mind was Eileen. Though he was concerned, he didn't bother looking at them—he didn't want to think about the injuries she had gathered. Up on the x-ray display board were more pictures, but for some reason they resembled a dog more than a human. Henry opened the door to leave, nearly running into another wheelchair. Waiting until they had passed by, he crossed to the next door.

Here was another x-ray display room, but with no pictures. The boards had all been smashed, and there was some lumpy bloody thing coming from behind the broken glass. There was a wire net spanning the far wall. Henry could see someone on the other side, but they weren't moving. It was most likely a dead body. He left for the next room.

It was padded with cushions as though it was for an insane person to prevent them from hurting themselves. Ironically though butcher hooks hung down from the ceiling and poked out from some of the cushions, completely defeating the purpose of the safe room. Raising an eyebrow in wonder at the cloth in the back that patterned in such a way that resembled a demon, he went back into the hallway and into another sterile room.

Another demonic patient greeted him in the closed quarters. He just barely managed to avoid its swings before he swung upward with the axe, catching it in the jaw. A few more hits later and the patient lay dead in front of him, neck bent from the force of his shoe.

In the next room he saw a statue of a coiled snake centered in the blood-smeared floor. Protected electrical cords ran down to the statue and up the wall. Nestled in the snake's mouth was a simple hospital key. Cautious, he walked up and unhooked the key from one of the snake's fangs. Immediately the mouth snapped shut and a heavy rusted steel cage dropped around him. Slightly dismayed, Henry tried to pry the snake's mouth open to fit the key back into its fangs, but the statue did not move. He stood there at the locked door, thinking of how stupid it was for him to come all this way just to be trapped by a cage. Peering through the bars, he saw the lock around the door. It looked rusted and weak, it surely wouldn't hold out for use much longer. Slipping the axe and his arm through the bars, he pounded on it with the blunt head of the weapon until the lock broke with a high metallic _ching_ and the door swung open. Relieved, he crossed the hall to the next door.

Standing alone in the middle of the room was a simple vase full of dried up flowers. Once it must've been a beautiful bouquet, left here as a sad memorial. Now the plants rotted, dead and gone. Near the vase was a white candle with red ink swathed around the bottom. Henry picked it up, the smooth wax giving him a sense of ease. He put it in his front pocket, the wick of it sticking out.

Before he went back out into the hallway he gave his pockets a once-over. Every single one of them was full, and his hands wouldn't carry much else what with the axe and Eileen's purse. Going back out the hallway, he ran down the length of it, carefully avoiding the wheelchairs until he reached the end. Descending back down into the reception area of the hospital, he entered the washroom and went through the hole.

After he had sufficiently emptied his pockets into his trunk and had felt somewhat healed up from his gaping wounds he returned to the wheelchair hallway. Counting the doors, he ran down to the end of the hall. He had two more doors to check. Keeping the hospital key with him, he patted it in his pocket. With any luck, it would lead him to Eileen if the last two doors didn't have her already.

The last two rooms weren't very active. One simply had a broken bloody bed that caved in to a hole in the ground. The other was an odd sort of arrangement. The floor was grated metal, allowing him to see through to the floor below. Some sort of deranged bed hung from the bottom of the floor, and moths below buzzed madly in valiant attempts to attack him. They couldn't crawl past the grating, however, and were of no threat to him.

Henry left the room back out into the hallway, nearly getting hit again by a couple of courting wheelchairs. As he was counting the doors back to the locked one, he spied a wheel chair that swiveled as a door opened for it, and wheeled into a room, the door shutting behind it. Henry almost stopped short to stare in stupefaction, but the sound of a pursuing wheelchair egged him on. He could feel it slowly nibble away at his heels. The danger of the situation made way for how ridiculous he looked, fleeing from a rampaging vacated wheelchair and _failing_ at it. The chair was just about to run him completely over when he ducked to the side, testing the door knob.

It was locked.

Taking the small key out of his hand, he jammed it into the lock and turned. It clicked and the knob freely opened the door. He threw himself into the room just as the wheelchair missed him by a hair. Shutting the door quietly, he turned and looked at the bed.

Eileen was there.


	13. Chapter 13

_Wasn't quite sure where to end this chapter, so I just did. By the by, I like toying with Eileen, so you might see multiple little plugs for her. This is why I like third person. (Don't you think this is a coincidence it's 'unlucky' 13 this chapter, where all the hauntings might start?  
_

_Also if you guys have seen my other oneshot SH4 stuff, you might noticed that I was visited by a flamer. :D Have you guys read that? Isn't that HILARIOUS? Oh god I nearly fell off my chair in sheer laughter. I laughed so hard I couldn't drink my tea. They put question marks and exclamation points that stretched the length of California, and swore at me with such creative words that they stuck in asterisks for. Oh man, it totally made my day, you have no idea. Don't get fired up in anger about it guys, because I'm sure not. XD They certainly know how to make me laugh.  
_

_Another big thank you to my friend HopelessIdiot. :D Yes, the Eileen's dog being named Hairy was totally done on purpose. WE LOVE YOU HARRY._

* * *

**Silent Hill 4: Chapter 13**

Henry approached her warily, apprehension making his heart pound. There she was, still dressed in her formal wear. Various bruises and cuts violated her skin. The make-up she had put on to go to her party was slightly smeared, but still presentable. There was a nasty scab at the corner of her lip, it looked like it would hurt to talk. She had been bandaged up in the most important places; her forearm and shin were wrapped soundly with temporary gauze, while her entire left arm was encased in a heavy cement cast. Her right eye had been covered up by a soft band-aid. It wasn't enough though. The filthy mattress had still been stained ever so slightly with the blood and pus that was still oozing out from her uncovered wounds. It was clearly a miracle that she had survived.

Her head had been turned away from him, resting to the side as she slowly took in breaths. They were calm and rhythmic like sleep, but every once in a while an abnormality would occur, making the sleep uncomfortable. Each breath she took was shallow, her chest only barely rising and falling. Henry stood over her, watching her struggle to sleep. He wasn't going to wake her up, he didn't have the heart to do it. For now he would stand here and if anything came to finish her off he'd make sure it didn't get farther than the door. Eileen was alive. That meant more to Henry right now than anything else. He had failed five times before, he wasn't going to fail again.

Gently Eileen turned her head, facing straight up. Soon after her eyebrow knitted at the bridge of her nose as her mouth tightened. A small groan emitted from her lips as she stirred, and she turned in Henry's direction, moaning and opening her eye a crack. Henry flinched, anticipation causing him to shiver. Eileen stared at him sleepily at first, then in sheer terror.

It didn't occur to Henry until it was too late, but what she saw was a scruffy unfamiliar man standing over her, his height casting a shadow that blotted his facial features out. He was holding an axe that was coated to the handle with fresh blood, and his clothes were splotched everywhere with more blood, both old and new. And he was staring straight into her uncovered eye, steadily, as if contemplating something. There were many things he could be thinking about, and to her, 'murder' was one of the higher possibilities. He was nothing but a threat.

Things happened so quickly he didn't know what was going on until it was over. Eileen tilted her head upward as her pale green eye flew open in shock and fear. Her scream started low, escalating as she pushed herself up on the bed, scrabbling away from him. As her scream grew louder Henry's eyes flew open themselves as he immediately realized what he looked like to her. He threw up his hands, hoping to establish some sort of innocence with her.

Instead, Eileen's cry jumped to a desperate shriek as she sat up and wriggled brokenly towards the wall. Henry stared at her for a split-second, wondering what had happened, then remembered the bloody axe that was still in his hand. That was a fine way to 'establish innocence.' He swore at himself, his profanity drowned out by Eileen's screaming.

She grabbed the medical pole by the bedside, using it as leverage to pull herself up to huddle against the wall. Screaming her lungs out as her only defense, she prayed that someone would hear her and rescue her. Right now she was defenseless, a mere shell of what she used to be. She wouldn't survive whatever he was going to do to here with that axe. Beginning to shiver uncontrollably, her imagination took over.

Henry dropped the axe on cue, nearly jamming his foot. Everything was happening so fast and awry he wasn't thinking straight. Her screaming urged him to do something to get her to calm down, and on pure instinct he ran to the bed, sliding onto it to reach Eileen. He wrapped his arms around her grabbing her to try and calm her down. She was moving so much that he simply reached out and held her, one arm around her waist and the other spanning the front of her shoulders. Pulling her body close to him, he made her scream louder and higher. She jerked away, throwing him forward from his grip on her, pushing his weight onto her back.

Her shrieks now beyond the realm of terrified, Eileen desperately tried to shake him off, wriggling her body back and forth with as much force as she could muster. Henry was persistent though and held onto her firmly partially because he lost his balance and partly because he was stubborn. His ears split from the decibel of her screech, causing him to narrow his eyes against the pain. Gathering up the voice power he never used, he shouted at her, hoping she could hear him past the din.

"_Eileen!_" he cried, inadvertently pulling her farther away from her safety against the wall, "Eileen, _relax!_" Eileen kept her grip on the post, pricking the palm of her hand on the rust. Thoughts running wildly and disconnected, tears started spurting behind her eyes as her mind cried.

_He knows my name!! He knows my name, he's been watching me, he knows my Goddamn _name!!

Eileen kicked out at him, desperate to fight him off. He kept his hands where they were, softly so he wouldn't harm her but firmly so she couldn't squirm away. The feel of his hands on her body sent shivers up Eileen's spine, just imagining what harm he had done to other people and what he was going to do to her. It eventually became clear to her that fighting him was hurting her more than him. Starting to curl up into a feeble ball, she remained tense although she let herself go limp. Letting go of the pole, her hand trembled as she brought it to her chest, grasping Henry's arm. It was the last thing she could do to get rid of him before she'd have a break down and forget how to defend herself.

Henry was surprised at the force in which she gripped his arm, her nails digging in as her last breath of fighting spirit. Weakly she pulled his arm out and away from her so he couldn't touch her. Getting the message he pulled his arm away, to which Eileen gave a short burst of a scream as she wasn't expecting his movement. Carefully he edged to the end of the bed, slowly coming to realization that he really should _not _have done that. Eileen dissolved into a pitiful mass of sobs, rocking back and forth to comfort herself. Henry stood up, letting one hand linger on her back before pulling it away. His fingers grazed the numbers that had become her scar, and the touch of them made him feel caught like a fish on a hook by a deep sadness.

Her skin was not mending itself well. The numbers were fissures, scars of the earth that could never be perfect again. Henry slid his hand off, eyes drawn to the scarlet numbers on her back as she sobbed, cradling herself. He stood back, waiting for her to gather her composure. It could take a long time, but he was willing to wait. Lowering his head, he knew such traumas did not heal quickly, and he should've been thinking about that before he had mindlessly reached out and grabbed her. Making that move most definitely made it worse, and it would take even longer now for her to feel comfortable enough to talk; to turn around, even.

Eileen glanced quickly back with her good eye, looking down and away to remove the remnants of her sobs with her shoulder. Looking up again she stared at him, easing her body into a more comfortable sitting position. At first she was going to face him full on, but she didn't fully trust him, so she stopped and merely faced him with her shoulder. He could see her incessant trembling as well as hear it in her voice when she finally spoke to him.

"H-Henry…? From next door…," Sniffling, she kept her cast between her and him lest he did something. Henry was at least relieved that she recognized him through the blood and grime that caked his hair, clothing, and face. Trusting him, however, was a different story; he could see it in her eye.

"What are you doing here?"

Stiffening, Henry mentally cursed again. To get her to trust him he'd have to tell the truth, and the truth is, to say the least, _very_ stretched. And, in order to tell her the truth, he'd have to rely on his dusty social skills—skills he rarely shared with women, and skills he rarely shared with formally dressed women. To top it off, he was standing in front of her soaked in blood that wasn't all his own, and his well-used axe was on the ground next to his soiled shoe. She looked at him expectantly. A fleeting thought ran through his head as he stood there, seeing it as a possible escape route. _Maybe I can pretend I'm mute._

The thought was scratched as she knew he could speak. Hadn't he just screamed at her to relax?

"I don't…," he muttered, shaking his head, "I don't know where to start…,"

_Start at the beginning, Townshend_. He told himself, walking his way through this. There was no way in hell he was any sort of psychologist, if anything, he would be the first in a hundred people to misinterpret someone else's feelings. He just wasn't a people-person, and nothing would change that, hence why he continued to talk long after Eileen looked at him, utterly frightened.

"There was this…strange hole in my room," As soon as he started, he couldn't stop, and soon he was babbling, "I-I saw people getting killed…all these…weird other worlds…," He paused for a moment, never noticing that Eileen raised a scared eyebrow at him. The message flew clear over his head. She dipped her gaze down so she wouldn't have to look at him, raising a hand to feel the bump on her skull. _Is he simply insane? What does he mean by 'saw people getting killed'?_

"And I saw you get attacked too…," he said, pausing again. He bent down to catch her eye, straightening quickly back up when she whipped her head around, sending a warning signal to him. Once more he became sorely aware that he shouldn't have done whatever it was that he did. His stomach flipped over as she spat venom at him as a defense.

"What are you talking about?" she sneered, tears still caught in her voice. Forcing strength into her throat she stared directly at him, glaring, "I'm supposed to _believe_ that?"

_You're screwed, Townshend._ Henry grimaced. Putting a hand out to emphasize the truth in his point, he bent towards her. Eileen shifted her position, squirming away from him. Though there was strength in her voice the fear was still very much alive and thriving within her. Henry saw it; she was terrified of him. He was caught in a sticky situation, and if he couldn't get out they might as well be confined in that very room for a long time, if not the rest of their lives.

"But it's _true_…," he protested, thinking quickly, "And…there was a kid with you," he added, his mind racing. He braced himself for Eileen's recoil, knowing full well that a little statement like that couldn't prove anything. Biting his lower lip, he watched Eileen's expression even if he couldn't interpret much.

Her eye suddenly became distant and thoughtful. She looked down at the floor, fingers kneading the thin mattress. Looking in the other direction, she continued to fiddle with the filthy cloth, fingers swathed up to the knuckles.

"I remember now," she murmured very softly, slightly embarrassed, "I was getting ready to go to my friend's party…," She looked up at Henry with a wide eye then glanced down, still not ready to meet his gaze. Unlocking her fingers from the mattress she raised a finger to emphasize a point and help her remember.

"The boy protected me from the man with the coat," she recalled, shaking her hand as she was reminded of the incident. She sighed and dropped her free hand back to the mattress to help support her. Everything hurt, and it was exhausting just to sit up. Letting out a few breaths through her nose, she tried to calm her mind. It was still riled up from the attack and waking up to find a stranger standing over her.

Henry readjusted himself when she spoke about the boy. So young Walter Sullivan wasn't doing these things, and the man with the coat was? That was good, or, better. Still, something didn't seem right about everything he had learned about the murders. Trying to keep his mind off of it, he made sure the fear and worry didn't cross his face. Eileen turned her head away from him, feeling awkward. Keeping her sight down at the mucky tiles she apologized to Henry.

"I'm sorry I didn't believe you…," she said sincerely. Shrugging her shoulders she stared off into the distance, sad, "I guess there's something wrong with me…," Eileen looked up, expecting some sort of reaction from Henry. He simply blinked. There were things he could say in response to that, lots of things, but he just simply couldn't speak now. Letting herself talk her out of her awkwardness, he said nothing because he sure as hell wouldn't make it any better. She glanced back down again, a lump beginning to form in her throat.

"I just feel so scared," she quietly confessed, her voice squeaking. Henry's eyebrows pushed together in a wince, and he blinked again, slowly. Eileen had quickly given up on looking to Henry for sympathetic words and expressions, figuring that she wasn't going to squeeze anything out of him. Her heart gave a quarter twist as it debated over why that was.

"This place…," Eileen continued, "what is it anyway?" She picked herself up and turned to see a tray near the door where dirty scalpels and instruments laid. They shouldn't be there, both of them knew. This was not an operating room.

"I don't know either…," Henry spoke finally, looking around at a bowl full of cool water where a skuzzy bandage soaked, "But I do know," he said, turning back to Eileen, "that if you get killed here, then you die in the real world too,"

Eileen hugged herself, sorely troubled.

"Anyway," he continued, turning her attention back to him and away from being afraid, "the only way out of here is through that hole."

"Okay…," Eileen whispered, hesitant. Reaching her good arm out, she placed her fingers in Henry's hand, his bulkiness taking her delicate fingers as lightly as possible, "Okay. Take me with you." Standing up, she fought back a wince as pain shot up through her legs. Gritting her teeth she waited until the pain died down from a howl to a muffled murmur. Once she had found her footing Henry let go, dropping his hand to his side and rubbing it anxiously on his jeans. Slightly miffed, Eileen stood there and watched as he bent down and picked the axe up. Wrapped around the handle of the axe were the straps of her purse. Henry untangled them and handed the purple handbag to her.

"Um, thanks," Eileen said, barely noticing the purse in her hand as she was eyeing the axe cautiously, "_Why_ do you have that?"

Henry glanced down at the axe then back at her. After a while he shook his head. There simply wasn't a way to describe it. The monsters were too bizarre and haunting, all the way to where they would be the sole cause of insanity. If he could, he wouldn't allow Eileen to see them. A rock in his stomach told him that it wasn't possible.

Eileen stared at him. The trust wasn't there yet. As soon as they went through this 'hole' or whatever, she was gone. This man seemed dangerous, and though he may not be violent to her yet, it could happen at any given moment. She had just recently learned the hard way of how quickly bad things happen. Once upon a time she'd have no trouble in trusting someone who offered to take her out of a nightmarish world, but now she wasn't going to take any chances. If her neighbor made any strange moves for the shortest fractions of a second, she'd do _something_ to either put him back in place or to get herself to safety. He had handed her the purse, she could use that to her advantage if she needed to stun him for a while. In the meantime she'd be extra cautious around him—you just don't walk around blood-stained with a bloody axe and have the general public consider you normal and sane. Trust was not something she was going to give him. She wasn't going to give him anything if she didn't have to. And she'd always, always follow behind him, never in front. In fact, she was glad when he opened the door first, carefully checking to see if the coast was clear by sticking out his head before walking out. She limped behind him, keeping close but not too close.

Henry was slightly confused. Every wheelchair that had once raced down the hallway was now gone. He stepped out, looking down the longest part of the hall in wonder. Though he was glad he wouldn't have to guide the injured Eileen through the tangle of wheelchairs, it was still curious. Usually when one thing disappeared in these worlds, it was replaced by something that was more horrifying and usually deadlier. Eileen stepped out behind him and shut the door quietly. It was then that he heard the sound of footsteps from a second party echoing in the hallway, and when Eileen gave a sharp gasp he whirled around, seeing two acidic pregnant patients that were almost upon them. Eileen froze next to him, staring in shock at the mutated bodies.

Shaking the surprise off easily he leaped forward, using his body to gently push Eileen to the wall as he did so. Bringing the axe upwards powerfully in a vague uppercut, he cleaved the closest patient, splitting open her bloated abdomen. Worm-infested acid sprayed everywhere as the patient undulated in a spastic manner, the bile literally spewing out. Flinching Eileen brought her cast up to her face, protecting herself. Henry skipped out of the way before he was completely covered, watching as the patient fell to the ground, convulsing rapidly as the last of the acid trickled out into a sizzling puddle that ate away at the tiles. Soon it ran out of life and merely twitched on the floor before lying still.

Frozen in fearful awe, Eileen watched as Henry turned and swung the axe, hacking away at the other patient who wasn't flinching. Right before the abomination was about to swing its weapon down it collapsed. Henry stomped its neck, shattering it to ensure death. Eileen huddled against the wall, shivering. She was staring in disbelief at the corpses, seeing the worms in the acid wriggle and perish before long, her eyes seeing everything but gazing into distances farther than the back wall. Henry didn't look back at her. He simply stood over the dead bodies, regaining his breath. He didn't want to see her reaction, he didn't want to blankly look at her fear, the fear that used to be on his face when he first saw the demon dogs back at the South Ashfield subway. He didn't want her to see the indifference in his face that had built up constantly ever since he began to realize this nightmare may never end. His attitude towards killing the monsters had gradually been changing, from survival to it becoming a chore to just a daily life feeling; and it was showing.

Words skittered about on Eileen's lips as questions floated in her head. She couldn't tear her eyes away from the corpses no matter how hard she tried. They were abominations that vaguely resembled women, pale and plagued into some kind of malevolent creature. Nothing in this world's imagination could possibly create this, even with the most twisted of minds. Soon she gave up on saying something, having found that there were no words in the English dictionary that could be said at this moment.

She flicked her eyes to Henry, steadily staring at him before dropping her gaze to her cast. Gently she massaged the thick cement, focusing her mind on that and nothing else. Truly in awe at Henry's blunt display of skills, she felt somewhat guilty for accusing him wordlessly of treachery. Even though she felt sorry for that however, she was still far from letting him have her complete trust.

Without looking up Eileen listened as Henry's footsteps drew nearer until they stopped, a few paces away from her. She glanced up quickly to see him staring at her, then refocused herself on her cast. After she was done aimlessly fiddling with it, she pushed herself away from the wall and nodded, keeping her eyes low. She followed Henry closely now as he walked slowly down the hall.

Limping always disables a person's walking ability, and the person is dramatically affected depending on how bad the injury is. Eileen had dealt with worse leg injuries in her life that had put her on crutches for a week, but what she didn't take account for what was the luxury of her sneakers. Her high heels literally made it hell for her to walk, and to keep up just with Henry's slowed pace she nearly had to jog. On top of that, each step she took sent shrill bolts of pain up her leg, in waves that varied in intensity. There was absolutely no way she could currently dull the pain except wait for her body to get used to it; but with as much pain that pulsated through every part of her body it felt as though it was impossible to gather enough strength to push the pain back. Walking differently proved to be of no help: sometimes it would hurt less to walk a certain way, sometimes it simply blinded her with excruciation. And hell, she didn't even _know_ what kind of injuries she had. Eileen countered a wince with a strong puff of a breath, diligently following Henry to the end of the hall, where a door to the stairwell stood adjacent to an elevator that looked like it had punched its way into the wall.

She had kept her focus on the back of Henry's neck—the only part of him that didn't seem to be covered with blood, acid, or other internal juices from the gut of some monster. Distracted by the elevator's abnormality, she lost her rhythm of walking and tripped.

Henry was in mid-step when Eileen tumbled forward. Caught by surprise as she didn't even utter a cry, Henry lost balance and stumbled forward, feeling Eileen's cast on his back bluntly and clumsily scrape down his spine. Shortly crying out in pain rather than surprise, he caught himself against the wall, pushing the panel for the elevator. Hearing a disconnected scrambling behind him he quickly turned on his heel, concerned for her well-being.

Eileen sat disgracefully on the grimy floor, legs splayed out in opposite directions behind her. Huge tears poured from her uncovered eye that was wide open in terminal shock form the unbelievable pain that was no doubt tearing at her. Henry had heard how disjointed and uneven her steps were. Although he didn't quite know how much she was struggling, he had a vague idea of how easy it was for her to slip up and hopelessly collapse because there was too much pain and trauma to deal with. The elevator behind him jerked and moved as he walked up to her, quickly at first but stopping abruptly, standing over Eileen and waiting for her acceptance of his help. Kneeling slightly he reached down his hand to her, making her jerk in surprise when his fingers entered her vision. She looked up, her upper lip trembling while her bottom lip tucked into her mouth as she fiercely bit down on it to dull the pain. Shaking, she raised her good hand up and grasped his tightly. Henry braced himself and pulled her up.

Fighting back cries, Eileen did her best to put her feet underneath her again. It was sloppy and harrowing, especially with high heels tied firmly to her ankles. She had to eventually let go of Henry's hand and clutch his elbow firmly to gain more leverage. His hands twitched, wanting to help but unsure of how to do so without further hurting or upsetting her. Awkwardly she hung onto him, at one point pushing her forehead into his sternum as a means of helping her stand. Henry uttered a few unsure sounds in his throat and simply stood his ground, planting his feet so they wouldn't move. Straightening herself out Eileen gave a determined sob before she stood on both feet, panting heavily from the strain. She let go of his shirt and stepped back, wanting to express her thanks but unable to from her throat being blocked.

Neither of them really registered that the elevator's doors opened, flooding the hallway with white light. Henry simply stood with his back to the elevator, one hand still reaching out towards Eileen in case she still needed help. The back of his mind told him he looked like an idiot with his hand out, and the further back of his mind told him that he should turn around and turn around _now_. Eileen pulled back a lock of hair behind her ear to keep it from sticking to her mouth and looked up to at least get her gratefulness across with a glance.

She looked up just in time to see an infected woman step out of the elevator car, weapon raised and ready to split Henry's skull. Immediately she fixed her eyes on it, the lump in her throat swallowed as she blurted out a warning.

"Henry—behind you—!"

Blinking Henry turned his body, moving out of the way instinctively as he did so. The patient's makeshift club swung at him, catching his shoulder. He stumbled back, sputtering. Eileen watched in horror as for a moment the woman seemed to tower over her, choosing her as her next victim. Then the demon turned, swinging the weapon madly towards Henry, creating an impenetrable whirlwind. Henry raised his axe to counterattack, a thin scowl on his face.

Through her stupefaction something clicked in Eileen's brain. Her fingers around her purse tightened as a certain exhilaration filled her limbs. She stood frozen for a moment, watching as Henry sloppily blocked a hit with his forearm, unable to get a proper hit in after being swamped with the monster's barrage. Fighting back the restraints of her pain, Eileen stood up, brought her purse up and swung it downwards as fiercely as possible, catching the demon woman on the shoulder.

The woman didn't flinch. It simply stopped its attack and turned its head without moving its torso, looking back at Eileen with a bloated, diseased eye. Eileen froze as its empty gaze locked with hers, the realization coming to her that the patient's diseased eye was the same eye that she herself had bandaged. Through its inhuman sight the demon continued to stare at her, emotionlessly but in such a way that Eileen knew she had inflicted rage within it. The rest of the world was shut out from her as she continued to be entwined in its trap. All noises and visions were cut off save for the demon in front of her, capturing her indefinitely. She fell deeper into the void as the seconds ticked away, deeper until the world rocketed back to her as the demon faltered with a throaty yelp, momentarily brought down by the blade of an axe.

Eileen blinked, snapped back into exhilaration. Without a second thought she swung the purse again, catching the patient by the cheekbone. Henry took the opportunity and swung the axe down, making the monster collapse to the ground. He gave it a stomp to double check, and stepped out and away from the newest body, shaking the excess meat from his shoe.

The exhilaration that had filled her body left her as quickly as it came, bringing the pain back. Faltering for a moment she politely waited for Henry to take the lead, ignoring the closing elevator for somewhat superstitious reasons. Though an elevator would've been her preferred way to get around, she understood why he avoided it, perhaps in such a way that her superstition was far more magnified than his. He at least was hiding his fear, unless he simply did not have any fear to his name. From how decrepit everything was at the moment Eileen found it hard to believe, yet there he was.

Henry held the stairwell door open for her, stiffening slightly as she passed. Though she smelled of pus and blood he could still catch a whiff of the perfume she put on to go to the party. Relaxing as Eileen stepped off to the side, he closed the door and descended one step, turning to look back at her. She looked very hesitant for a moment, eyeing the stairs as if they were a rotting bridge spanning a bottomless chasm.

Patiently he waited for her, willing to go at her own time. He was slightly infatuated with her—not her as a person but her as a concept. She was the one, the only one out of five gruesome attacks that survived. Even though he didn't save her the mere fact that he could redeem himself for the failures and mistakes of the past five other worlds sent him flying. Her simply being there put Henry in such a high that he nearly reached cloud nine.

Nearly. They weren't out of this yet. He had to keep his mind focused on the task at hand; to get Eileen (and himself) out of here. As long as he kept her safe until they reached the hole she could plausibly stay that way until he figured out how to wrench them both out of this nightmare.

Eileen refused his offered help, using the wall and railing if she needed to keep her balance or rest a bit. Sheepish, Henry withdrew from his helpfulness, merely leading the way for her. The last impression he wanted to give was that he was forcing himself on her. That wouldn't go over well with anybody.

At the bottom of the staircase Eileen was panting. His willingness to help conflicted with her previous refusal, so he stood there, back turned to her as his hand hovered over the door knob. He listened to her wheezing, lips curled in a silent wince. When her breaths were no longer quite as desperate he opened the door to the lower emergency wing. Dazed almost, she followed, her off-step corresponding with her involuntary rasps. Closing the door he turned and looked.

Eileen sucked in a breath and bent into a readied stance. Henry raised the axe, and even with the little preparation time he had, the patient approaching them was down in a relatively short time. Hanging in the back, Eileen watched as he didn't stop after the patient was dead, quickly taking care of a second one that was farther down the corridor. He didn't relax until he was sure there were no more creatures there. Eileen waited until he lowered the axe until she limped up to his side, making sure to avoid the puddles of blood on the floor.

Henry stood still for a moment, recalling a mental map of the area. Briefly interrupted, he turned back to Eileen for a moment as she spoke, head down.

"This is a nightmare," she murmured, "It can't be happening…,"

Giving her a long stare, he understood more to what she said than just the words. Mostly because there were no words. Pinpointing the washroom's door, he tentatively took her hand despite the startled jolt that she gave when his fingers carefully took hers, never daring to squeeze her hand even in the smallest way. She followed him into the washroom, gaze to the floor as she was fixated on the drain that was set in the floor's indentation, a dried stream of blood streaking down to the drain's center.

Henry gently took more of her hand in his palm, striding across the length of the washroom to the far wall. Eileen followed even though she was confused. All she saw was a concrete wall, smooth, thick, and most definitely impassable. A bad presence of unknown origin slowly filled her chest, sending panic to her brain that escalated with time. Henry kept going as if a horse for the barn. Squeezing his hand, she uncertainly stood there, the panic building up and putting a name to the origin of her uneasiness: Fear.

Looking back, Henry gave her whatever reassurance he could pass on with just his eyes, and stepped up.

Horrified and mystified at the same time, Eileen watched as he simply disappeared into the wall, vanishing into the concrete. Staring in a blank gape, she stood there, her hand still reaching out. It felt as though his hand was still cradling hers, until the feeling was pulled away, sucked into a vortex and leaving her alone. Her fingers twitched, painted nails scraping along the solid wall. Lips trembling, she stared at the stone that was caked with grungy dried fluids.

"Henry…?" she whispered hoarsely, frightened. When nothing answered her she called out his name again, still at a whisper but with tears added. Her voice didn't even echo off the walls whenever she spoke. Terrified she stepped back, retreating her hand and inhaling sharply. Her loud breaths were the only things that passed through the silence as she clenched her hand into a fist.

"_Henry!!_" she suddenly screamed, sadness, anger, and loneliness crashing past her lips in a massive outburst. Tears spurted from her eye, enticing her to sob. Stumbling to a different footing she buried her face into her arm, feeling the wet scratchiness of her bandages against her forehead. Thoughtlessness dominated her as she began to cry until her conscious regained control.

_You aren't going to cry yet._

Eileen suck in a loud sniff that was un-ladylike, and violently rubbed the tears away, raising her head.

_You can't cry. Not yet._

She was simply left alone. All of the demonic creatures outside the washroom had been slain, and she had some sort of makeshift weapon to at least protect herself should she need it. Things could be much worse.

Then again, things could be much better too. She could be home—not room 303 home, but _home_ home, with her mom and dad, engulfed by a comforting easy chair with a cup of her mother's homemade tea. The fireplace would be sparking quietly and joyfully as outside the snow blanketed everything for Christmas Eve. She'd be wrapped in warmth without the need of her fleece blanket. Hairy, the dog she had since she was in first grade would still be alive and would be curled at her feet, snoring rhythmically in content.

And above all, she'd be safe.

She felt herself begin to cry again. Digging her nails into her shoulder she forced it to stop. To put her mind off of everything she began to pace. Back and forth, back and forth between the lockers of the now cramped washroom. Her high heels clopped on the tiled floor, giving a steady beat for her relaxation. Each step she took brought pain to her body, but she did not quit. Walking helped her keep herself in check, and she was also bound and determined to blow the damn pain off to get used to it. While she paced she thought, and while she thought the pain momentarily left her.

Henry would come back for her—she was almost certain of it. Even if he didn't own her trust she knew he'd come back for her somehow. She wanted him to come back. He was there as an anchor for her. Perhaps he wasn't entirely sane, but he seemed to be the only other human here in this hellish pit. And, at the moment, he wasn't hurting her. Eileen twisted her mouth as she remembered her mother's words that had become a natural moral of hers. There was something to be thankful for in every body; so far with Henry it was him just being there in the same boat as her. He'd be back.

Eileen picked up her pace, speeding up the rhythm of her footsteps. If he didn't come back, she'd wait for someone else or until her wounds healed, and then fight her way out of here. It wasn't impossible, she was strong, she could definitely do it if she was given the time.

She stopped suddenly in the middle of the room, squeezing her temples between her fingers.

If he didn't come back.

What if he didn't come back.

--

Henry woke up on his side with a small jolt. His open closet greeted him with darker shadows than usual. Lifting his head up with the help of his hand, he blinked away the unconsciousness. Hesitant, he glanced over his shoulder to the unoccupied side of the bed, goose bumps forming on his skin. Blinking again to make sure he was really awake, he scanned his bedroom.

_Eileen…she's gone._

There was a possibility that she woke up in her room. Though as Henry slid off the bed he figured, no, _knew_ that it wasn't so. Sighing heavily in a defeated manner, he went to exit his room.

He didn't get two steps before something crashed and shattered in the living room, making the goose bumps on his skin intensify. He froze, staring at the door. His nose was stuffy, and for no reason, the air in the apartment had never upset his sinuses at all. Very slowly he turned the knob, slinking out into the narrow hallway. The air in the room felt extremely heavy and malevolent, if there was such a feeling one could get from just the air. Henry walked out to where he heard the noise, and stared.

The ceiling fan that used to hang over his coffee table had crashed onto it, chipping and ruining half the table. The blades of the fan were bent, the light in the middle shattered into a million pieces. Part of the car magazine he had on the table was shredded, and the remote control was most likely destroyed from the brunt of the fall, as he couldn't see where it was.

Feeling oppressed Henry did a full 360, standing in the hallway intersection. The pain that used to be relieved by his trips back to the apartment was not going away. As of now, he was going to be running on empty fuel.

There was a filthy red envelope stuck underneath his door. Pushing a dangling chain away, he wriggled it out from the crack, opening the wax seal and taking out a letter and a small key.

_You've seen that world as well…That horrible nightmare. But if you get sucked into it, it's not just a nightmare. Don't get lost in there. If you get pulled in, you'll be killed. But there's still hope. Maybe this small key will guide you. If you've seen the door with the placard set in it, look on the other side of the door. Then keep going down. To the deepest part of him._

_And look for the ultimate Truth._

_July 20 – Joseph_

Henry put the small but ordinary key in his front jeans pocket. The air of the room weighed down on his shoulders, and it was almost a chore for him to straighten up. Coughing, he looked over to the other side of the room, where at the corner of the window and the bookcase were more notes. Stepping over the damage done by the fan, he carefully picked the disoriented letter fragments up, sitting on the sofa to read them.

_How long has it been since I left this room? I can't tell if it's been days or hours…But during that time, they've found the body of "14/21". I've been having hallucinations lately. I think I'm losing my mind._

There wasn't any date written at the bottom. A sinking feeling pulled Henry further downward with his fear. Mostly because what he had just read on the note were the exact things he himself had been experiencing. Hell, had _he_ written the note himself? Stuffed it behind the bookcase during one of his interludes between worlds? Trying not to dwell on any thought, he read the next one, palms sweaty.

_Walter Sullivan did kill himself. He died in his prison cell of blood loss after he stabbed himself in the neck with his spoon. His body was buried in a cemetery just outside his hometown of Silent Hill in an unmarked grave. After that, his name became famous all over the world and it looked like his string of mass murders was finished at ten out of twenty-one. But three years later, they found a corpse that had 12/21 carved into it. The corpse was from six months earlier. In other words, the person was killed two and a half years after Sullivan committed suicide. The MO was exactly the same as Sullivan's. Except for one thing._

_All of Sullivan's victims were found with their hearts cut out and their chest wounds sewn together expertly with thread. On the other hand, the 12/21 victim still had their heart. Naturally the police think it's a copy cat and are proceeding on that basis. But they haven't made any progress and recently discovered victim number thirteen. This corpse also had their heart intact. The police still haven't even identified a suspect._

_I've got a working hypothesis. Very few people knew the details of the original crimes and would be able to copy Sullivan's MO so precisely. First I'll head to Silent Hill…To the graveyard near that beautiful little lake. Maybe I'll find the answer there._

_June 11_

_The weather that day was very strange. Even though I avoided the earlier storm, there was still a thick fog clinging to everything. Fortunately, that allowed me to avoid being seen and get right to work. The police are still stubbornly acting as if it's just a copycat case. So I figured things probably hadn't been touched here._

_But I was wrong. I should have come sooner._

_The cemetery was in such bad condition that it was almost sad. The storm must have raised the sea level. Anyway, that's how it was when I found Walter Sullivan's grave._

The diary was too damaged at that point, and Henry couldn't read anymore. He turned the paper over to the other side to read the rest of the entry.

_I'm still in shock…There was no body in the grave…And on top of that, written on the coffin were the numbers 11/21…_

_June 14_

Henry shivered holding the paper. Was that the beginning of Joseph's spiraling madness? Not that Henry distrusted him because he was going insane, in fact, he wouldn't trust him as much if he was fully _sane_. He glanced over to his red diary on the table. Figuring it was for better and not for worse, he picked it up and gave a brief summary of what had happened, his handwriting shaky in some areas. Before the ink of his pen gave out, he managed to put one last line.

_I'm going back. Eileen isn't here, which means she's back at the hospital. I'm not letting this chance go away. I don't think there's a huge reason why she survived, but she did, and now I'm going to ensure that she does. Even if I don't…_

Henry shut the book. Mentioning his own death meant nothing to him now. He had figured it out not too long ago that the chance of his own survival was insignificant. It would take a miracle for him to make it through, even a bigger miracle for both him and Eileen to find a way out. But Henry wasn't a firm believer in miracles.

Right now, the only thing he believed in was bestial and crude. Now the only thing to believe was to survive, by any means possible. If you don't survive, it's game over, and you're bringing Eileen down with you.

Climbing into the hole, Henry felt the oppression follow him into the other world. He knew that it was there to stay.


	14. Chapter 14

_Hey guys! Wowee, been a while, I know. Schoolwork and all. I even got a hundred percent on a math test. YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND THIS DOES NOT HAPPEN IN THE LAND OF LABYDWELL. I mean REALLY._

_Anyways, _you can't escape this chapter!_ I want to know how many people read this story, so if you've gotten this far, give me a shout! Review on this chapter, you must. It's okay, I'm not particularly looking for mindboggling critiques or whatnot, just give me a thumbs up or down or something. Or, if you really don't know what to say that isn't simple, answer me this question one! The Dresden Files, ever read it? TELL ME IN YOUR REVIEW! Don't be afraid, I don't bite, I'm not here to mock you like I did that precious flamer I got. :D  
_

_Special thanks to George Gershwin, whose music totally clashes with Silent Hill._

_

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_**Silent Hill 4: Chapter 14**

Henry landed on his behind, as usual. Groggily he sat there, crouched over himself as the fuzziness cleared. Groaning, he stood up slowly, still feeling a heavy weight on his shoulders.

"Ah, _Henry_!" Eileen exclaimed, relief overwhelming her voice. Even a faint smile caressed her lips. He straightened to see her limp up, and before he knew it she released a happy (if not scared) moan, wrapping her good arm around the back of his neck. Henry's mouth moved as she approached, no sounds coming out. Ever so slightly he turned his head towards her as her fingers gently scraped the back of his shoulder. Her bulky cast separated their bodies from each other, as well as making it uncomfortable for Henry's stomach and her ribs. Uneasy but not responding even though she simply just walked right into his personal space, his hand hovered at her waist, awkward and unsure. Squirming, her perfume was overpowered by the blood and pus.

"H-Have you been here the whole time?" He asked. Eileen pulled away almost immediately, pushing him back to further the distance between them. Instantaneously she was fierce and angry at him, her voice entwining around confusion.

"_Yeah!_ And I didn't see any hole either! You just…disappeared all of a sudden!" Her shoulders raised up and down with the intensity of her breaths, as she got more upset by the minute. She looked Henry directly in the eye as she continued, borderline hysterical.

"I can't stay here by myself. I'll be cursed…I _know_ it," The bruise on the side of her face changed shapes every time she blinked or spoke. Henry was strangely attracted to the bruise, as if that was going along with what she was saying. He crossed his arms as he listened, trying to think.

"What am I going to _do_?" Eileen drooped, wrinkling her skirt in her sweaty palm. She really didn't expect him to say anything for her, much less just give a sympathetic gesture. He surprised her by replying, albeit somewhat softly.

"I might know a way to save you…," He unfolded one of his arms and gestured to her, "Do you know about someone named Joseph?"

Eileen scratched the top of her head and concentrated. She stared blankly at him for a moment before limply dropping her arm to her side.

"Yeah…," She said, still thinking as she talked, "he was the guy who lived in your apartment before you," She limped over to the wall, leaning against it for much needed support. Maybe she should've sat down instead of paced all the time, because though she thought it helped the pain it really only made it worse.

"I think…," Eileen pointed her finger at him as she talked, eventually leaning against the wall on her back rather than her shoulder, "he was a journalist or something…," Her shoulder blades ached from the scars, but he continued to think and speak for Henry's sake.

"He disappeared about six months before you moved in…But towards the end," Eileen looked directly at him, "He started acting really weird…," She was going to say more, but by catching Henry's gaze she realized that what she was saying and what she was going to say applied directly to him. Immediately shutting her mouth, her cheeks would've gone red if they didn't have bruises to cover them.

Henry tapped his stomach and stepped forward, "Yeah, he was doing an investigation. About a religious cult and a man named Walter Sullivan. I got this…letter from him," Eileen looked up and pushed away from the wall, "He told me to go down…down into the deepest part of him, and to look for the ultimate Truth…,"

Confused at his words, Eileen blinked and shook her head from the insanity. Henry remained firm in front of her, forcing himself to look her directly in the eye. He was just so glad that his voice wasn't wavering.

"Let's do that. There must be something down there." He gave a curt nod towards her to spark some reassurance. Eileen looked down to the floor, every now and then shaking her head.

"Okay, I'll do it," she said after a while, "You're the only chance I've got…," Lazily she pointed her finger out, her expression becoming sorrowfully serious, "I'll stick with you." Maybe she didn't still trust him, but she learned the hard way that she still needed him here, for moral reasons. Henry blinked a few times at her, as if surprised, then looked away. Perhaps Eileen was seeing things, but she thought that a little color was in his cheeks. She couldn't be sure. Really the only time she paid attention to him was when his face was most _definitely_ red with such color that she thought he was sick. If anything else, if he was blushing now it was giving normal color to his cheeks, because his skin was pale from lack of sunlight.

Leading the way he exited back out into the emergency hall, looking back and forth in case there were more monstrosities. The elevator shaft was open, revealing a rusted chamber of gears and body parts. An unstable chain link plank stretched across the span of the chamber over to the other side, where the tile dipped down beyond sight in a staircase. Blocking the path was a simple gate. Taking the small key he received from Joseph out of his pocket, Henry uneasily stepped out onto the plank, hearing Eileen following close behind him. Sometimes her steps caught in the linked plank and she had to shake her leg free. Unlocking the gate he let Eileen go first through it so she wouldn't have to deal with the plank anymore.

Ascending a multi-story staircase were three patients, one woman in front, two in back. Henry pushed himself in front of Eileen, axe readied. Descending down the stairs, he gave the axe his best swing, hitting the patient square on and hard with his higher ground. The monster crumbled immediately, tumbling down the stairs. Eileen and Henry stood at the top and watched as it fell all the way to a landing, lying still. Cautious, they both advanced as the two patients below kept climbing upwards. Eileen kept her purse raised to attack, self-conscious in the back of her mind of how ridiculous she might look.

They were just about to get ready to swing at the two patients when the previous one rose up before them. Startled, they froze for a moment, Henry recovering before Eileen. Attacking quickly he stifled the patient's attack, making it crash down the stairs again. Undeterred, the two other patients kept ascending the stairs until they were stopped by a rather comical act as the previous patient bowled into their legs, taking them both with it. All three of them toppled down the stairs, stopped by the wall at the bottom of the stairs and landing in a heap. Henry sucked in a breath through his teeth, and ran down the stairs, using his long legs to stride and skip steps. Eileen gave a grunt of indignity and tried to follow the best she could down the stairs without tripping.

Henry reached the bottom of the stairs before any of the pile got up. Thankful, he began to make sure that each of them were dead. While he was struggling with the second to last one who seemed to refuse to die, the third patient recovered and stood up, beginning to climb the stairs toward Eileen. Failing to successfully kill the one he was standing over, he looked up at the staircase, feeling a nail being thrust into his chest.

"Eileen!" He called, watching the back of the monster as it approached her. He turned to go protect her when the nearly dead patient gripped his foot with mechanical force. Nearly tripping and falling over, he grimaced and tried to hack away at the monster as quickly as possible, hearing the footsteps of the patient become more concentrated as it prepared to attack. His vision of Eileen blocked by the monster's body, he struggled to regain the upper hand, trying to focus on earning his freedom so he could go help her. The patient would not let go of its vice-like grip, and though it had no mouth Henry could tell that it was grinning savagely. Guttural sounds echoed around him as Eileen fought back to the best of her ability, until he heard her cry out in shock. Henry froze as he looked up, seeing her handbag cartwheel down the stairs to the bottom, ending in a pool of blood that sent ripples to the edges.

A cold shiver wormed through his muscles. He didn't move for the longest of time, his eyes fixed on the purple purse that was slowly being soaked with the blood, the red staining the fabric slowly like an ocean bleeding onto dry land as it swelled and expanded. Giving a burst of strength he finally wrenched his foot from the patient's grasp. Eileen's pained screams bounced off of the walls, piercing his ears. Some of them had a spot of anger to them, but they were few and far in between. Stumbling forward he climbed up the stairs, gripping the axe hard and ready to go berserk as soon as he came within range.

Just before he was about to hit the patient in the small of its back it uttered a loud throaty sound. Eileen responded with a vicious 'Go to hell', and before Henry's eyes the patient was thrown to the wall, Eileen's cement cast pushing its head into the concrete. There was a loud crunch as its skull collapsed, and the monster fell to the ground, dead.

Eileen stood there, panting hard. Her shoulder was bleeding with a new wound that had caused her to drop her handbag, but nothing else appeared to be harmed. Blood and acid splattered her cast, dripping from it and pit-pattering on the stone steps. Henry looked on in shock, part of him relieved. He lowered the axe slowly as no other monster seemed to stir dangerously. Eileen returned his stare, her face drooping in weariness. Opening his mouth, Henry had all intentions to say something but nothing came out.

"Ow," Eileen said softly, wincing, "Ow…,"

All too soon her face scrunched and creased in all ways possible, and her knees buckled below her, crumpling from the intense pain. Pushing the corpse aside with his foot, Henry stepped up to meet her as she wobbled and fell forward. Holding out his arms and dropping the axe he tried to make her fall as cushioned as possible on him. Sobbing to replace her shrieks, Eileen pressed her body into Henry's. When the pressure hit the cast it sent another bolt of massive pain to her head, so she placed a hand on his collarbone to keep distance between them. Tears streamed down her cheek as she began to sob out more expressions of her pain, her eyes watching the acid and blood drip down between Henry's shoes. He didn't hold her in his caution to make sure he didn't harm her further.

Eileen kneaded his shirt within her desperate fingers, just managing to talk between wheezing breaths.

"_Ow owowowow!_ I'm never…doing that again…!" she cried, burying her forehead into Henry's chest and rubbing it back and forth. He glanced down at her cast, stained with the marks of battle. He had never had anything in a cast before even though he climbed lots of trees when he was small. Seeing the blood and acid trickle down the stairs from the puddle between his feet, he figured that the plaster of the cast was only to set the wound or bone, and not to protect it from harm. Her arm had slipped from the leather strap around her neck, and she was dangling it weakly in between them so as nothing would touch it.

"Are…you okay?" Henry asked quietly.

"_No!_" Eileen coughed in mid-sob, squirming, "I wish I was!"

Henry sealed his mouth. After a long while Eileen declared that she'd be alright for the time being, and they broke apart to go further. He picked up the axe again as she bent down and picked up her blood-soaked purse without a word, shaking the loose droplets off. She'd avoid fighting with her cast for as long as possible—the mind-shattering pain was too much for her to bear on top of all the other injuries she possessed.

The patient that had stalled Henry from helping Eileen was crawling up the stairs with its arms, not being deterred by the fact it was almost dead. Henry gave it a sound kick to the face, and when he heard a satisfactory snap he bitterly stepped over it to the door at the bottom of the staircase. Eileen pretended not to notice his savageness. On the door was the red symbol of the cult that he had seen before on other doors and cult bibles. Opening it, he and Eileen stepped into a world of fog.

It was hard to see as it was, but the lamp post that was immediately set outside the door somehow made it harder. The area was made up of a giant spiral staircase that wound forever downward, or so it seemed anyways; they couldn't see how far it really went due to the fog. Underfoot the stairs themselves were stable, but their rackety look and the weakness of the railings suggested otherwise. There was a blood trail on the steps that led down. The entire staircase led down. Down, down into the deepest part of him. Henry looked out into the fog and swallowed hard. Eileen stood next to him, waiting for him to take the first step. And so he did, descending down into the foggy abyss.

The décor was less than friendly here. Henry did his best to ignore it, glancing once before keeping his eyes on the stairs he was walking on. Blanketing all noise, the fog made this place silent. The only things Henry could hear were his and Eileen's footsteps and her breathing. The thing he concentrated on the most besides where he was walking were the sounds of Eileen's footsteps. He heard clearly when she had stopped to gape at a hanging feminine body, pierced multiple times in the abdomen with railway nails and encased in a cage as if on display. There was no face to display pain, only the body swinging there in the bleak grayness. Afterwards he heard her rush up to him, her broken steps clattering on the metal. He slowed his pace instinctively until he could feel her presence not but a foot away. Resuming his normal pace, he felt her constantly close to his back, never allowing herself to get more than a few steps away. Never did she look up to stare at the many female bodies again.

Eventually they came to a fork in the road. The spiral staircase veered off into the center where a piece of suspended broken wall blocked it off. In the middle of the wall was a hole, completely open and looking rather dangerous to enter. Henry glanced back Eileen, knowing that she could only see the section of wall. He felt a very bad presence emanating from the hole. Aside from the possible note and medical supplies, there was no reason for him to return to the room right now. Eileen panted beside him, her hot breath ruffling strands of her hair. There was also no need for him to scare her again. He ignored the suspended wall and continued to descend the stairs, passing a display case with a gurney.

The stairs ended although more of them spiraled downward past these. At the end was a wall with nothing behind it, a lamp post shining on a plain white door. The white of it had been almost violated by the circular cult marking painted on it. He waited until Eileen caught up with him before opening the door.

They entered into a dimly lit facility room, full of deserted shelves, gas tanks, pipes, and electrical wires. Carefully Henry navigated through the awful light until they could see better, the fluorescent bulb above the door no longer blocked out by valves and reservoirs. Another white candle was placed on one of the shelves, the wick end of it sticking out in the open. He picked it up, the smooth wax comforting, and put it in his pants pocket, the wick still poking out. Unlocking the door beneath the light, he tried to push the presence of Eileen's stare away.

He could tell she didn't like him. As soon as they both got out of there she'd take off to the authorities or something. She was going to stay with him until the end, she wasn't an idiot, in all aspects of the situation. A bloody man carrying a soiled axe wasn't exactly the ideal individual to be trekking around with, regardless of the monsters. As much as he idolized her she wasn't mutual in that aspect, and if he wanted her to stay he'd have to back off. Pushing the door open, he stepped forward, keeping his mind on the drive to continue.

Immediately he was pounced upon by a gorilla charging him on all fours. He had barely enough time to cry out before he was tackled, the door squealing on its hinges as it flattened out against the wall. Eileen screamed as both bodies tumbled into her, laying her out flat and crushing her. Henry struggled, wrestling with the writhing mass of muscle screaming at him. Beneath him Eileen choked and wriggled. Gritting his teeth, he pushed upward with all his might, attempting to lift both himself and the gorilla up at the same time. They hadn't smothered her completely, at the worst Henry's head was being pushed into her midriff. The muscles in her stomach tightened and twisted as she dragged herself out from underneath him. Henry kept his focus on keeping his body off of her until she broke free, falling prey to two sensations of muscles. One came from the gorilla, the thickness of the muscles tightening and pushing down on him, eager to suffocate and throttle him, forcing fear into his weak body. The other was the slithering movement of Eileen underneath his back. Though she was stiff and hurt the way her smooth muscles frantically undulated brought a hidden ecstasy to his brain, helping the adrenaline pump through his veins faster.

His face grew hot from the strain to keep the gorilla away from him, even after Eileen crawled away from the fray. It didn't matter that he was weakened from the constant battling—even in normal condition Henry would be no match for the gorilla. He felt himself get pressed into the concrete, his ears ringing from the mutant's screeching. Growling in frustration, he began to kick and flail his legs wildly, trying to scrape them harmfully against the gorilla's groin area.

A soft snap echoed over the noise of the brawl, and the gorilla reared up in pain, the fleshy head from its chest shaking with the force of the howl it gave out. Henry chambered up his leg and kicked it squarely in its hidden balls. Scrambling, he managed to scrape himself away before the gorilla collapsed to the ground. Eileen stood in the door way, having just pulled the stinger-like tail of the mutant so hard she dislocated its tailbone. Henry stumbled as he picked up the axe and ran to the door, slamming it closed behind them and locking the squeaking gorilla in the room. Eileen looked at him urgently as he panted excessively. Pain sharply cruised through him, particularly from his broken rib that had been quiet for the longest of time until it just got violently agitated. Running a sweaty hand through his mop of a hair, he shook his head.

"I'm fine. You okay?" he coughed.

Eileen opened her mouth to answer, but it took a while of choosing her words before finally deciding, "I'm not sure how to answer that,"

Henry blinked in understanding before cautiously walking down the narrow hallway. More sounds and hoots of gorillas in the distance bounced off of the walls, and as he knew from experience, the gorillas were fair game at ganging up against someone unfairly. Eileen followed, though her steps were more carefully thought out than before.

Henry tried to keep as quiet as possible. He wanted to avoid combat at all costs, for the last two times they had been encountered Eileen had gotten hurt or nearly killed. It was unlikely that they were going to have more lucky encounters like that where they both came out relatively unscathed. Holding her hand to keep her close, they uneasily slipped past a few romping gorillas, nearly getting caught by one. As they slinked by, taking advantage of the gorilla's general stupidity, Henry looked back to find an escalator leading up to nothing, his first entryway into the alternate subway. The mechanical whirring could barely be heard above the tromping and hooting of the gorillas.

The hall outside the washrooms was empty, though there was the lingering presence of evil and death hung in the air. Eileen sensed it too, so when Henry asked if she'd like to take a break she refused and said that she wanted to keep going. Skeptical, he trudged forward, feeling the presence thicken as they neared the turnstiles. The hooting was far behind them now, no longer an immediate threat. There was nothing but a ghoulish air to be had in front.

And black threads on the floor.

Staring at them curiously, Henry and Eileen looked at each other. The threads were grouped together in bands, stretched out into a trail that snaked around the Lynch turnstile back to what appeared to be the King turnstile.

"Hair?" Eileen suggested aloud. Henry shrugged. They were pitch black, and no light reflected off of them even though the fluorescents above were shining as if they were brand new. He leaned his body so he could just see past the Lynch turnstile, wondering if he could see where the hairs were leading to. Numbers and chalk lines laid out by policemen littered the far side of the King turnstile, and in the midst of so much police work was a body.

Stiffening, Henry motioned for Eileen to stay put. He had consciously pushed his memories of Cynthia away from his mind, pretending not to notice the significance of the area. But now, was he being forced to remember her? Creeping forward he felt the ghoulishness of the room intensify, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He kept his eyes on the body. It didn't look like Cynthia—the hairs on its head were long and black, the source of the trail he followed. They were dead though, as the skin was pale. Though relieved he felt a little uneasy, and when the body groaned and twitched he nearly jumped backwards. Wondering if they were still alive but badly hurt, Henry took a few steps forward, tentative.

Multiple feminine cries sifted through the air, of different volumes and voices. The body uncurled, its head twitching and jerking from side to side, finding its sights on him. The eyes were covered by its lengths of hair, but Henry could tell it was studying him, reaching out a hand to crawl forward. Every now and then its body made spasms that suggested a deep, spiritual pain, sending a small warning signal to Henry's mind. He froze in his steps, watching. The body reached forward and crawled right through the turnstile as if it was nothing.

Henry backed up, hands instinctively thrown up in defense. The body, the ghost, righted itself and stood, feet hanging just above the floor. Pumps, a scanty skirt, enlarged breasts, jewelry, but most of all the number carved brutally into her left breast.

_16/21_.

Cynthia.

Gripping the axe Henry nearly fell backwards.

_God no._

_Oh _God_ no._


	15. Chapter 15

_First off: Sorry if there are wacky typos here, my cat wants some lovin' and that includes walking in front of the monitor and/or dancing on my keyboard._

_Second off: APPARENTLY I AM UNLOVED BY YOU PEOPLE HERE. D: WOE IS I. Oh well MITSY STOPPIT I CAN'T TYPE IF YOUR FACE IS IN MY HAND.  
_

_In other news some anonymous flame/reviewers apparently think I do not like Henry. hahahaWHAT. XD  
_

_Oopsiedoodles, some parts of this chapter are a little far-fetched and confusing._

**

* * *

Silent Hill 4: Chapter 15**

"Henry? What's going on?" Eileen limped up, a sharp authority in her questioning voice. Henry didn't respond to her, just backed up a few more steps as the ghost wench approached. He was transfixed, his eyes wide in shock and horror at the floating figure. Even though it was the most obvious way to put it as well as being the most cliché, the only way Eileen could describe it was that he had seen a ghost. To her the ghost was of a woman who took the quote-on-quote 'wild side' of life, complete with breasts spilling out of her soiled shirt and thong strands tightly hugging her pasty hips. Her fingernails were demonized into claws, her hair shifting with a mind of its own, and her slacked jaw gave her the impression of a snake. She floated stationary, surveying her prey. Eileen pressed her side to Henry's, voice quiet but urgent.

"Henry, we gotta go. Come on,"

Henry muttered something incomprehensible and stumbled, turning his body towards her.

"Wake up, come on. Let's go," she continued, keeping his attention on her. Henry was in the middle of a terrified nod of agreement when the headache struck.

Eileen was so focused on Henry and Henry was off guard from his stupefaction that neither of them noticed the wench ghost fully approach. Eileen had her eye on him, and saw everything unfold in slow motion, every movement and sound amplified.

Henry's eyes bulged then scrunched closed, instantly causing him to drop his axe so both hands could claw at his forehead ferociously. The tall man doubled over, making himself just over half Eileen's height, and stumbled as if uncontrollably drunk. Then he let out a bloodcurdling scream.

His scream rang in Eileen's ears, and would continue to remain there for another hour as she stood, watching. Pain contorted his face underneath his thick, messy locks, veins popping out on the back of his hands from the strain he put into them, digging into his skull. Staggering in an awkward line, he only stopped when his shoulder rammed into the Lynch turnstile office. All the while he let out cries of unearthly suffering in his struggle to get away from the ghost wench.

The ghost wench seemed to have a grin on her face as she continued to torment Henry by simply approaching him, fingers curling and uncurling in anticipation of his flesh. Her hair reached forward, quickly snaring him in a trap with individual tendrils of ebony. Digging his heels into the concrete floor uselessly, Henry slid towards her, helpless.

Eileen snapped out of her incomprehension, her gaping mouth curling into a sneer. She may not have felt the pain that Henry did, but that doesn't mean that she was unable to. For all she knew, the ghost wench would turn on her next, inflicting her with the same torture and luring her into her hungry jaw. And she would not stand by when her companion, her _savior_, was being eaten, much as he'd return the favor to her.

Bandaged knuckles turning white with the intensity of her grip on her purse, Eileen stepped up to the ghost wench and struck her hard. The ghost let out a juicy gurgle and turned her head in Eileen's direction much in the fashion of the girl from _The Exorcist_, and examined her with the twitches of her head.

"_Bitch_," Eileen snarled, "Back _off_."

Henry's eyes opened, but not in response to Eileen. Rolling to the back of his head, he exposed the weary red stains in his eyes. Unable to scream anymore, his mouth hung open in a throaty gasp. Eileen's snarl deepened, and she intensified the attack on the ghost wench, relentlessly bringing the metal corners of her purse on the ghost's skull. Sooner rather than later the ghost's hair fell from Henry in lingering traces, and as Eileen kept attacking and advancing the wench soon fell to the floor, given a disgruntled moan of hatred before slithering off to the abyss of the subway below.

Breathing hard through her teeth, Eileen glared at the dark staircase, beads of saliva flying forth from her mouth. Henry crumbled to the ground, nearly in a fetal position. He moaned shortly after and twitched. Eileen glanced down at him. She wasn't willing to get down on her knees, so she simply stood above him as he slowly recovered. When he rolled onto his back and opened his eyes to a slit, she finally spoke.

"What the hell just happened?" She spat, a little too much anger in her voice. Inwardly she winced at herself, but her ferocity couldn't be helped at the moment, or so was her excuse. Henry stared up at her for a while, before rolling away. Some extra color had returned to his face, but he would never ever say that it was because he could see up her skirt.

Grunting, he clambered his way to the office wall, using it as support to help him stand up. Eileen watched him carefully, making sure he wouldn't slip or drop. Unsteadily he stood on his own two feet, wobbling a bit. After a while of testing his strength, he bent down and gingerly picked up the axe, hands shaking from the lingering pain and weakness. Eileen stayed back, watching in hidden pity. Some part of her knew that he didn't want her to see him weakened though both of them knew he was far from the strongest man in the world, and that part of her helped hide the pity just beyond her makeup, for his sake.

Silence passed between them for a while as Henry kept walking to rebuild his strength. It continued like this until, rebounding from the bowels of the subway, a decrepit moan of ecstasy rose up, the voice rising and falling with the climaxes and falls of lust. Henry and Eileen looked at each other, instantly knowing who it was.

"Where do we go?" Eileen asked, fear in her voice. She didn't want what had previously happened to occur again, for reasons both selfish and selfless. Henry reached out and grabbed her hand, softer than usual as he was still recovering, and led her back to the washrooms. Eileen, able to keep up with his pace for once, followed beside him. She didn't even realize that he casually walked into the women's bathroom until they were already inside, the small room devoid of urinals. Not that she really expected the urinals, it just came as a surprise to her where they were in the first place.

"O-Oh, um…," she muttered. Henry lowly said something about there being a hole here, which almost didn't reach her ears. She stopped at the sinks where he let her hand go, staring at the writhing white bodies on the floor.

_Disgusting…!_ She uttered in her head, staring at the huge slugs. Henry wordlessly trudged on them, reaching the far wall. He paused for a moment, rubbed his temples, and turned around.

"I'll be right back. I need…a few things, some painkillers," he mentioned, eyes drawn to her shoulder, "You're still bleeding."

Eileen blinked a few times, but before she could say anything to tell him that she'd be fine, he vanished again. Clenching and unclenching her fist, she sat wearily on the filthy floor.

The wench ghost had come and gone, Henry had collapsed and righted himself, they brought themselves into hiding in a subway bathroom, the eyeless slugs were watching her, and she still didn't have an iota of an idea what had just happened, what was happening, and what was ultimately going to happen.

--

Henry woke up in his apartment, just as weary as back in the alternate world. Where he used to get rest and energy from his travel between the holes he now got little or no comfort at all. The burning headache that nearly pulled his brain out of his head through his ears still lingered, not as strong, but still endlessly pounding in the back of his skull. He really didn't know what had frozen him back there, aside from the sheer shock of seeing Cynthia turned into such a monster against her will. (Was it against her will?) The pasty white skin webbed with dark blood veins was a sharp contrast to her healthy bronze skin that she had in life. The moans of ecstasy that were demonized combined with the cunning way that the ghost moved held a mocking sort of significance to who she was, and Henry simply, positively, hated it.

Sighing, he opened the door to the hallway, aiming to just fetch some painkillers, a first aid kit, and the subway tokens he had completely forgotten about. His goal was postponed, however, when a constant, frantic rattling disturbed the silence of his apartment. Freezing up again, he edged his way into the living room, staring across the ruined coffee table to the windows on the far side. They were crashing and banging, rattling with all their might as if caught in their own personal hurricane. For a moment Henry was afraid they'd fall off and shatter, letting the elements of the weather in and raising ill-hearted suspicions around him. He stood and watched them for a while, making sure that they wouldn't do anything quite sinister. A new, faint, weaker headache prodded at his already tender mind if he approached to stop them, however, so he kept his distance.

Underneath his door were two notes, tucked in safely. There was just enough light flickering from the overhead bulb to read by. He picked up a red sheet and read.

_I've found two mysterious and powerful artifacts that seem to be very effective for evading the ghost victims: the Holy Candle and the Saint Medallion. Not only are they effective against the ghost victims in the Other World, they also seem to prevent them from invading my room. Just light the candle near where they're coming in and its holy power is activated. The Saint Medallion seems to repel unholy energy when it's worn._

_I'm starting to gain some hope._

_July 25_

Henry folded the letter and bent down to pick the other one up. It was a bulky, filthy envelope that he had to wriggle free from the door's grasp. When it was no longer stuck he opened it, the paper worn soft again from the continuous wrinkling of hands. Inside it was another note written from a child and a plastic toy key, both filthy as if they had taken a short ride in the sewers.

_Mommy, I'll giv you this so pleez wake up soon. It's inside my toy train._

The key must've once matched a brightly colored plastic padlock. The yellow had been so dirtied that it was now more reminiscent of canary's corpse fallen into the mud. Stuffing it in his pocket, Henry disposed of the envelope and note. Something about them disturbed him, the way the child had spoken through the blue crayon they used to write. He was about to go to the trunk when the light above him flickered maniacally in a desperate fight to remain alive. It gave one last shuddering breath before a sharp _pop_ ended its life.

It was a little hard, bumbling around in the dark. He hadn't realized how much time had passed since the last daybreak. Hitting a few furniture feet with his toes, Henry shuffled back to his bathroom, holding his breath while he was in there to keep the rotten smell out. Fumbling in his towel closet he plucked out some painkillers and the first aid kit he picked up from the hospital. Setting them to the side of his big trunk, he opened it up to dig for the subway coins he still had left. Cursing quietly, he stuck his hand in there, feeling around. It was too dark to see.

Standing up, he looked around uselessly. He needed a light source, but his emergency flashlight was in his car, not the apartment. There was a candle in his pocket, but he'd have to go fetch matches for it, matches that were in the drawer of the end table near the crazy windows. Blowing a puff of exasperation, he crept over to the table in the dim light, popping a dry painkiller before he did so as if it would automatically ward off the pain. Opening the drawer, he fumbled for the matchbook. Once finding it, he stepped back and pulled out the white candle.

Lighting the fussy match on the third try, Henry carefully lit the candle, blowing the match out and tossing it on the ruined coffee table. A fire hazard, for sure, but to be perfectly honest he didn't care. He was just about to turn back to the trunk when he noticed something.

The windows were rattling less and less often as the candle burned, dying out with desperate breaths of energy. Henry approached the windows, holding the candle out. The windows all but suffered and ceased, the escaped energies burning the candle at an alarming rate. Henry had to keep switching hands to hold the candle, for the wax was hot and scalded his fingers. He didn't quite feel the pain though—the candle had a certain benevolence about it that seemed to release all the aching and tiredness. Was this what Joseph meant? Were the white candles he had seen the Holy Candles he had mentioned? A little rejuvenated, he returned to the trunk with the dying candle, picking out the last few turnstile coins from the dusty bottom. On a whim from his latest encounter, he picked up a cumbersome Sword of Obedience as well; some part of Joseph's letter telling him that he needed it. Satisfied, he blew the candle out and shut the trunk.

He never noticed, but in the far corner, a spider lay on its back, legs curled to its hardened middle to mimic the final throes of the wretched creature.

It was dead.

--

A slug squished beneath him as he arrived back in the women's bathroom. Eileen jerked her head up in surprise, nearly bumping the back of it on the sink above her. Though he seemed to have a little more energy than before it appeared as if it was only a temporary fix, as his eyes had even bigger bags beneath them and were widened to further express how bloodshot they really were. In his hands he held the axe along with what looked to be a wooden broadsword, curiously carved with a triangular handle. A sense of righteousness seemed to emanate from the blade, and a tiny corner of Eileen's mind cowered from it, knowing that the righteousness was seeking her out.

Eileen groaned out a weak hello, using the pipes of the sinks to help her stand up. It was still quite a feat for her to do, but she did so refusing his silent, shyly offered help. As much as he didn't want to be pitied, she didn't want to be with ten times the force.

Henry stood against the wall, head bowed down as he watched Eileen struggle. Politely, as she wished, he said and did nothing. She kept watch of him out of her peripheral vision, for if he so much as moved to help her she'd blitz him as soon as she righted herself. She was used to living alone, being independent, and having the ability to wander astray without the daggering eyes of others. Like the simple snuff of a candle, that self-confidence and freedom had been mercilessly blown away, now making her brutally earn the right to stand alone again.

And it hurt.

Breaking out into a sweat from standing up, Eileen hid it the best she could by staring Henry directly in the eyes through the curtain of thick hair. Avoiding her gaze out of discomfort, he stood straight, cupping a slip of what appeared to be paper in his hand and leaving the sword up against the wall. At first she didn't understand what he was doing—she thought he was just passing through the slightly cramped space to lead them out of the bathroom, until he took the now curved slip of paper in both hands, peeling it apart to reveal a rather large, padded band-aid.

"What—," Eileen uttered in surprise. Henry's mouth twisted in indecisiveness, and he bit his lip. Struggling, Eileen was about to refuse the offered bandage, but in the end she released a breath of hot air and nodded, allowing him to tentatively apply it to her shoulder. The wound was still spilling blood, and it would be a while until the wound clotted and scabbed over. As gently as possible he pressed the pad to her shoulder, hands shaking as he smoothed it out so it would stick to her skin. Murmuring a soft 'thanks' with a tone of high contrast to only moments before outside of the bathroom, Eileen reached up with her good hand, putting a little more pressure on the band-aid that Henry had failed to give.

A sound gently pushed through Henry's throat, as if it was a premature 'don't mention it.' Eileen smirked, and followed him to the door.

Opening it a few inches, he paused, a frown curled on his face. Hesitating for a few moments more for reasons unknown to her, Henry finally pushed the heavy door far enough for the both of them to get through, exiting after Eileen. For a short moment, he thought he heard a gorilla romping just outside the door, but it must've been his imagination or magnified echoes of the beasts down the hall. Regardless he led Eileen out of there quickly lest it was more than just a suspicion.

As they approached the turnstiles the molten moan of the wench ghost filled the air, smoldering in their ears and playing along with a sexual atmosphere. Awkwardly fitting the Sword and the axe into one hand, Henry dug into his pocket with the other, plucking out a coin. From the wall perpendicular to the turnstiles a writhing woman pushed her way through a portal of tar, nails digging into the concrete. Eileen uttered an indistinguishable sound, one that urged Henry to hurry and helped curb her rising fear and the lump in her throat.

Slipping the coin into the bin, he heard it clatter and the turnstile unlock with a creaky click. Grabbing Eileen, who was transfixed as Cynthia fell to the ground, Henry pulled her close as he pushed through the gateway that protested with a fair share of groans. Pressed up against each other to fit into one of the quarters of the gate they fell to the other side as the ghost crawled forward, palms spread against the tile. Glancing back Henry saw Cynthia 'stand' up as she reared her head back, showing off her pulsating white neck and cold breasts. The dark number remained in contrast to her skin and in the center of his vision until her locks of long hair covered her front as the rest of her body followed her head, snaking upward until she was floating above the floor.

Eileen gripped his arm fiercely as her heart pounded. Being able to beat at the ghost would only protect for so long; whether she liked it or not she _needed_ Henry here for her survival. To her relief he recovered quickly, balancing out his hands so the axe was in one and the Sword in the other. Expecting her to follow on his heel, he descended the stairs quickly, despite his weary legs and aching feet. Grasping the railing, Eileen half-walked, half-slid down to the bottom, sneaking a glance behind her. The ghost wench came through the turnstiles, staring at them with eyes hidden behind her hair. The ghost remained stationary for a while, tilting its head in different angles before slithering backwards beyond the turnstiles. Eileen tapped Henry's shoulder, making him turn back to see what she was seeing. Even though he had seen a similar situation of territory disputes before, he blinked in relieved surprise. Underneath her hand Eileen felt his tense muscles loosen a bit with a physical sigh of relaxation. Envious, she took her hand away. She wished she could be that comfortable.

Henry turned to the short end of the hallway. His memory of the subway was fuzzy from the last time. Even though it was the station near his apartment, he didn't use it that much and the alternate reality of it offered many dead ends and detours. An open doorway led into a much longer hallway. Tongue dragging on the ground, a dog guarded the opening, panting slightly. The ribs beneath the rotting skin expanded and contracted with each breath, emphasizing how emaciated it was.

Henry brought down the axe on the dog's head as hard as he could, emitting a grunt of exertion. The dog's cry broke Eileen from her stare at the grotesqueness of the creature. Overwhelmed with fury that she was almost certain wasn't her own, she had the sudden _need_ to pound its skull square into the ground. And it felt good—_way_ too good. The fury blazed hotly in her veins, so hot it scalded her, seared her muscles and momentarily blinding her with a scarlet light. She gripped her purse and raised it high above her head to deal out its death.

Before she could, the dog had fallen prey to Henry's axe, and now lay dead in a growing pile of its own blood. As swiftly as it had come the fury left. No longer did her veins run thin with searing blood, no longer was there a scarlet curtain hanging just beyond her vision. Everything disappeared within a moment, without warning. Eileen staggered as she regained her composure.

_What_ had just happened? Never in her life had she felt that sort of anger. She looked at Henry as he disposed of another dog down the adjacent hallway. Should she tell him?

Watching as he viciously put the dog down by crushing its neck, she decided against it. Not yet anyways. In fact, she'd do well to keep every strange happening to herself. For one thing, who knows how Henry would react to her should she tell him that she was having what appeared to be emotional difficulties—especially those that felt otherworldly and supernatural.

Keeping to herself as her vision stared off into the distance, scared, she stood off to the side as Henry glanced across the spidery barricade in the middle of the hall before turning around. Pushed up against the wall was a chair bathed in a euphoric bloodbath, random limbs and bodies of mannequins strewn about the display seemingly held together by tangled wires. On the chair sat a smooth, wooden mannequin, arms curling around an empty book open on its legless lap. Across the book's thick pages lay a short riding crop, designed specifically for horse racing. Surprisingly it was bloodless, untouched by the gruesome display around it. Shifting the Sword and the axe into one hand again, Henry picked up the riding crop.

It was light, and fairly easy to whip. Even given a little force it would end up being utterly painful, drawing blood if need be. You couldn't really beat a muscled creature to death with such a thing, but it was a fine distraction, and a painful annoyance if anything else. He glanced up at Eileen, who was gently massaging her broken arm again, shivering slightly as if cold.

Keeping his distance Henry walked up, riding crop held loosely in his hand. Eileen blinked, then looked up at him. Something had frightened her, he saw. Without thinking about it too deeply, he figured it was the dogs. She glanced from him to his hand holding the riding crop, slightly gesturing toward her.

"It would uh, make a better weapon than your purse," he blurted quietly, eyes fixed to her stained handbag, "And uh, you don't want to…you know…," A look of pain crossed his face. He was awful at this. He was the silent gentlemanly type, and not very experienced with breaking the ice with strangers, especially women. With the short time he was given he had learned how to easily take down one of those rotting monster dogs, but in all the twenty-seven years of his life he hadn't yet learned how to comfortably get to know someone else in a short amount of time.

Eileen saw the humiliation that flashed across his face as he struggled to pick his words wisely. Silently she put him out of his misery by slipping the handbag off of her wrist, letting it drop on the floor as she reached out and gently took the riding crop from him, closing her hand around the comfortable handle. Faintly her fingernails scraped his palm as she retreated her hand, peeling a thin layer of sweat and grime off of them. Eileen frankly didn't care, or even seemed to notice. Sweat and grime weren't the only type of filth caked underneath her nails. As her fingers traced away from him she could feel the tension once again loosen in his muscles, and once again she felt jealous. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Henry eyeing her purse on the ground, as if contemplating whether to pick it up or not.

"Leave it," Eileen said quietly. Henry jumped, and looked at her, "I don't need it anymore, much less want it." It wasn't that big of a loss anyways. Better that than a limb, or her life. Henry gave a slight nod, then eased past her to lead the way down to the subway tracks.

"This looks like the station closest to our apartment," Eileen commented as they descended the stairs. It felt weird somehow, saying _our_ apartment. Henry glanced back at her and nodded. They were, indeed, in South Ashfield station. Shrugging the strangeness off, Eileen followed him as quickly as she could down the stairs, finding them absolutely awful.

He waited for her at the bottom, illuminated sharply in the light of a working vending machine. Somewhere down the lonely tracks in the station a ghost moaned, but it was too far away to be troublesome. Eileen stumbled up to him as he stared at the glass of the vending machine. Painted onto the glass was a strange request. There was a one followed by an odd sign, what resembled a fat eight with a line drawn through it. Tilting one's head to the side revealed that it was possibly a sloppily written dollar symbol, probably done by a child still learning how to write. Disregarding it slightly, Henry looked down at Eileen, then to the other side of the tracks blocked by stopped subway cars. It was the only way to go, the one way forward. Waiting until Eileen felt the tingling of his eyes and responded by looking up, he gave a gentle jerk of his head to the train cars.

Solemnly Eileen looked at them, understood, then sighed as he walked toward the open door. Why was there a feeling in her chest that told her that this wouldn't end?

Henry took one step into the subway car and was immediately interrupted by an enraged roar to the right. Startled into a crouched stance he wildly looked at the car door where oily black spots blotted out the window. A lustful groan ensued as Cynthia's claw-like hands pushed her body through, falling to the floor. Heart rate quickening to a near absurd pace, Henry shook.

Sucking in a sharp breath behind him, Eileen pressed herself closer to his back. Remembering what had happened not moments before, Henry willed his tired limbs to move. There was an open door right across from him, the two lengthways barricaded by Cynthia and a vicious chain link wall. With a few great strides he leapt across the width of the car, followed closely by both Eileen and the ghost wench herself. A terrible headache began to recreate itself, signifying the greater power this ghost had over the others. Growling in frustration he tried to keep himself afloat, keeping his mind above the pain.

"Henry," Eileen panted shrilly. She knew he wasn't doing well, and he could all but touch the tension in her voice. Forcing out another growl to make sure he stayed awake, he grabbed her arm and fled down the midsection, turning back into the same car through a different door.

He all but ran straight into the ghost.

Pain exploded in his head, and he dropped Eileen's arm, leaving her in the midsection. Frantically he pawed at the pain, dropping both the axe and the Sword that had been in one hand. Eileen called out his name again, driving him to leap forward into the car. Cynthia caught him by her hair, a wretched grin splitting her face and jaw. Henry flailed in her grasp, kicking with all his might. Hell if he didn't know what he was doing, all he wanted was to be free.

A sharp, whistling noise followed by the ghost's cry of surprise loosened its grip on him, and Henry dropped to the filthy floor of the car. Gritting her teeth in anger Eileen whipped at the ghost, each time letting out a grunt of exertion to cover up the difficulty she had swinging the riding crop. Cynthia snapped out of her surprise and lashed out at Eileen, scratching her bruised cheek. Eileen let out a short shriek that sounded as if it was filled with rage rather than pain and glared at the ghost, hot blood running down her face. Grinning, the ghost attacked again, hitting her so hard that she was knocked out of the car, scarred back slamming into the other train across the midsection. The ghost then turned back to Henry, the grin of a famished animal on its face making as if it was to devour him.

It dove down and Eileen screamed.

Henry howled and swung the first thing his hands had found as he lay there, and the ghost Cynthia recoiled with a shriek to rival a banshee. Heavy wooden Sword in hand, Henry coughed and struggled to keep its point directed at the heart in between its breasts. The tip of the sword hummed and glowed with a soft white light. The ghost scowled and struck at him multiple times, wary of the Sword. Fumbling, Henry slowly stood up, nearly dropping the Sword way too many times to keep his heart beat down. Keeping Cynthia at bay, he slowly approached her, Eileen stumbling back behind him. Breathing hard, he felt the headache still burn strongly in his head. If he lost his focus now they'd most likely end up dead, the both of them.

Cynthia hissed, hatred seeping out around her. The glow of the Sword faded at its tip, and Henry grew weary. The ghost's power outclassed the Sword's by far, and Henry was simply too weak to keep up with the Sword's needs. Still he kept it raised, each one waiting for the other to strike. Hissing again, the ghost seemed to look between both Henry and Eileen, as if deciding which one it should be rid of first. It floated silently, leading them both into a false sense of security, making them think that the Sword was still working without the glow.

The next thing Henry thought he knew was that, in the blink of an eye, Cynthia had driven her hand deep into his chest.

Hungry, throaty breaths pounded out of Cynthia as her fingers constricted around Henry's ribcage, playing his ribs like a piano as she searched for his heart. He screamed through gritted teeth, at one point unable to because he simply _could not breathe_. The Sword all but fell from his hand, staying there only because his knuckles shone white from how hard he was gripping it. A fountain of blood happily sprayed around the ghost's pulsating arm, and a scarlet heat bled into Cynthia's aura as her clawed fingers closed around his trembling heart.

"_No!!_" Eileen cried, screaming in terror as a blind frenzy clouded her eye with tears. Whipping as furiously as possible, she didn't stop even after the ghost wench retreated its hand from Henry's chest. He doubled over and fell through the ghost, landing on the other side of the car. Mercilessly Eileen continued to whip the ghost until it dropped to the ground. Moving with a sick sort of grace, the ghost wench gurgled angrily and slithered itself into Eileen's feet.

Tumbling backward and dropping the riding crop, chains clattered madly in an chillingly jovial chorus as she fell back into the metal barricade. She screamed as Cynthia's icy skin brushed up against hers, searching for her heartbeat. Curling herself up into a ball, Eileen whimpered uselessly, struggling to get away from the ghost's unholy touch.

Awakened by the loud noise the barricade had made, Henry unsteadily stood up, gripping the Sword. Bringing the Sword behind him in an overhand swing, he brought the ancient wood down, cleaving into Cynthia's back. It only did so much as to brush the exposed skin on her back, repelled by the ghost's power. It did, however, drive the ghost away from Eileen.

Henry fell onto his seat from the pain of the headache as the ghost turned, lizard-like, and screeched, scampering across the subway floor in his direction. Crawling desperately backwards Henry weakly swung the Sword in front, warding her off to buy himself more time to back himself into a dead end. Sooner than he'd like his head hit the door to the next car, and he was trapped. Cynthia reached for him, claws stretched for his flesh. Struggling and using the door as support, Henry tried to stand up, no longer relying on the Sword in his hand to keep her back. Cynthia began to rise with him, the grin returning to her curtained face.

A colorful toy box sailed through the air and hit the ghost wench at the base of her neck, causing it to cry out in another banshee scream. The ghost fell to the ground, and before Henry could think his instincts reacted, and the moment the body hit the floor he took the Sword, glowing and burning with a yellow flame, and impaled it in the small of its back.

The Sword slid through the ghost's body like fine sharpened steel through silk. The ghost let out a ghastly scream, and Henry's headache came to an abrupt, relieving end. Sliding to the floor gently, Henry let out a whoosh of air, staring directly at the ghost Cynthia's face. The ghost clawed at the ground, moaned, screamed, but nothing it did had any effect anymore.

"Cynthia…," Henry whispered under his breath. _What happened to you?_

Eileen limped up, staring straight at him. The colorful box she had hurled at the ghost moments before lay underneath the deteriorated seats, its strong plastic having not shattered in the process. Henry's eyes, staring at the ghost, were distant, and it would take some effort to try and reach him. She stood quietly, aching in every imaginable way both possible and impossible, and waited for him to shake himself out of it as she kept her distance.

The ghost retched, and from its stretched mouth it coughed up something silver. Henry flinched as the small thing danced onto the subway floor. Tentatively he picked it up. It was a bullet, plain and simple, and made of the purest silver he had seen. It hummed warmly between his fingers, just as the medallions did. Looking to be about the same caliber as his pistol, he stuffed the bullet in his pocket before standing up again, struggling a little to support his body weight. His eyesight wavered before settling on Eileen, staring at him gravely as her shoulders heaved a little with her labored breaths.

Coughing a few times to regain control over his weariness, he looked around, seeing the corner of the toy box next to the ghost's waist. Carefully stepping around the ghost's struggling limbs (partly to be polite, partly because it made his stomach turn that his foot went through the ghost without acknowledging its presence) he eased it out from under the seat, the box rattling with its contents as he did so.

"What's that doing here anyways?" Eileen asked, her voice a little raspy from screaming. Henry shrugged, carrying it into the next car through the door he had been backed up against. He didn't want to be in the same place as Cynthia's tormented ghost.

Setting it down on the seat, Henry dug in his pockets until he pulled out the filthy yellow key. Eileen stared, transfixed by the oddness. Unlocking the chains on the box, he opened the lid. Inside it was filled to the brim with hundreds of filthy, light coins. Plucking one from the pile, he rubbed the dirt away from one side until he could see faint red lines marking the coin with the same symbol that was painted onto the vending machine. He looked to Eileen next to him as she stared at the coin. Fingering it for a moment, he figured it was worth a try and pocketed the coin, leaving the key with the box. Briefly explaining to her that it was worth going back, he led Eileen back through the first subway train's cars until they found themselves back at the vending machine. Eileen's eyelids drooped with weariness, but she followed dutifully. As tired as she was, she still made damn sure that she'd keep up with him.

Drinks from the vending machine clattered and fell as Henry merely pushed the coin in. Crashing into the bin at the bottom, he reached down and brought them out. There were two of them, one an advertised nutritious health drink and the other a canned energy drink. The can was empty of any liquid, as was made evident as Henry held it in his hand. It was light, and rattled if he so much as shook it. Curious, he dropped it on the ground and crushed it with his foot, shattering the brittle tin. Inside the can was a key, tagged with a slip of paper that read in capital handwriting _S.A. Station Murder Scene_. His blood froze, but he took the key anyway, putting it away before Eileen could take a look at it.

Standing in the light of the vending machine, the nutrition drink he held had not yet passed its listed expiration date. A vague sense of thirst and hunger that had been repelled crawled back at him, and he had the urge to drink it to keep the feelings at bay. He glanced over at Eileen, who was leaning up against the machine with her eye closed, breathing as calmly as possible.

"Hey," he said. Eileen opened her eye, raising her head slightly in response, "You want this?" he asked, gesturing with the health drink.

Eileen stared at it for a while before shaking her head. A gurgled sound came from her throat, as if she was going to speak, but instead of straining herself she simply pressed her forehead against the cool, inviting glass of the vending machine, closing her eyes again.

Henry blinked, and popped open the cap. Bringing the brown bottle to his lips, he drank tenderly. It was quite tasteless, but thick and somehow refreshing for only being lukewarm. He paused when it was halfway empty and licked his lips. His stomach churned out a small 'thank you' to him, and said no more in terms of complaints. Taking in a slow breath, he handed the bottle to Eileen.

Surprised, Eileen declined again. Twisting his mouth, Henry kept the bottle where it was, persistent. After a short time Eileen gave in, and drank the rest of the bottle. She wrinkled her nose at the blandness of it, but finished it off anyways to the last drop. Tossing it into a wire garbage can (which seemed silly because there was garbage everywhere) she thanked Henry despite herself, and followed him back into the subway labyrinth. She moved slowly, but did her best to keep up with him. Henry led the way to the other side of the subway line, picking up another candle and taking care of the two dogs that waited for them. Dragging her feet along, she gathered up enough breath to speak.

"Can we rest soon…? I'm getting tired…,"

Henry slowed his pace to walk with her instead of in front. He said nothing but led her down the length of the subway to a door at the far wall. This was the same door he lost Cynthia at his first time through. He made sure this time that Eileen went through first before he followed.

The room, washed in red, was somewhat comfortable if a little stuffy. Henry nodded to Eileen, and she gave out a great sigh of relief, and with some difficulty sat down against the wall.

"I'll be back…," Henry murmured, gesturing to where he saw the hole in the wall. Eileen glanced up at the wall and then at him before closing her eyes, somewhat hurt. She nodded slowly and turned away, not looking at him again. Feeling strangely crestfallen, Henry climbed into the hall. He wanted to fish out a Saint Medallion from his trunk. After the most recent encounter he was more paranoid of ghosts now than ever. Most of all, he didn't want to freeze on Eileen again, no matter how much she resents him.

--

A little lighter than before, Henry rolled out of his bed and into the main living room after letting his eyes adjust to the dimness. Under his door was another red note. He was crossing down to pick it up when he realized something was out of place.

His shoes, the ones he had bought in Silent Hill that normally sat near his door, were gone. In their place was footprints, spaced exactly a stride apart that matched Henry's leg span. The footprints, however, were done with blood. A cold shiver climbed up Henry's neck and he turned around.

As he did so his shoes turned around as well, facing him. He stepped to the left, his shoes stepped to their left. Uneasy he approached them. They waited as he drew near, a low headache burning in the back of his brain. A little bit on the side of exasperated, Henry pulled the Holy Candle out of his pocket, picking up the matchbox left on his coffee table. The shoes stalked him as he did. Lighting the candle he placed it just within their reach, and the shoes shuddered and stopped. Behind them the bloody footprints disappeared in order until the disappearance climbed up to the shoes. Shuddering again, the shoes disappeared; reappearing back where they should be by the time the candle had burned out. Tired, Henry followed back to where the shoes had replaced themselves, and finally picked up the note underneath the door.

_A few days after Walter killed himself in his cell, several residents witnessed a long-haired man with a coat here. Through his window, Richard Braintree in 207 saw the man moving something heavy and doing something in room 302. Even Sunderland, the superintendent, saw the man with the coat hanging around room 302 and confirmed tere were signs of someone having been in there._

_July 17_

Unnerved a little, Henry discarded the items he didn't need, namely the silver bullet and a few other things, before picking up a Saint Medallion. Slipping it on over his head, he dropped the medallion down his shirt, the cool medal humming quietly over his heart in a joyful rhythm. Left with the axe and his gun, he climbed back through the hole.

--

Eileen stirred as he returned, and stood up from a restless nap. With only the thought of moving forward in his mind, Henry paid a small salutation to her and began to descend the ladder in the corner of the room. He got down about four rungs before something occurred to him and he looked back. Eileen stood over him, staring down in a thoughtful frown. Beginning with a slightly exasperated breath, Eileen gestured with her recovered riding crop to her cast.

"I can't use a ladder with my arm like this…," Her voice was a little accusatory, just pointing him in the direction of _duh_. But covering that harshness was her worry, clear and plain, painted across her features underneath the blood and bruises, underneath the lipstick and eye shadow.

She didn't want him to go.

Keeping one hand on the ladder Henry turned around and looked up at her. Her eye was pleading at him, begging him. Mouth curling and twisting, Henry tore his eyes away.

"I'm coming back for you," he sputtered, staring at the concrete wall behind the ladder. Boy did he feel stupid and clumsy.

"I promise…," he added softly.

He heard Eileen stutter out a small cry as he descended down into the bowels of the subway, and his stomach wrenched at him.

_Hurry._


	16. Chapter 16

_Ended the chapter where I did, which ended up being quite a weak ending, but I know EXACTLY where I want to end the next chapter and I'm sort of THIS CHAPTER MUST HAVE AT LEAST SO MANY WORDS freak so um cutting it off here._

_In this chapter, Eileen has nightmares, Henry gets hurt and acts like a sluggish drunkard, and LabyDwell gives a courteous nod to WebMD. In that order._

* * *

**Silent Hill 4: Chapter 16**

The basement of the subway was much more alive, thriving, and pulsating than Henry remembered. The walls, resembling a stomach, churned and growled as Henry ran along the increasingly claustrophobic corridor. Two ghosts emerged from the walls in the final stretch of the hallway, one appearing right before his eyes and nearly causing him to collapse. Narrowly trying to weave between them, he held his head in agony as he stumbled forward. The floor sloped downwards in a crumbling staircase, and when Henry came to it he slipped, fell on his seat, and slid all the way down to the bottom. The moaning of a ghost following close behind caused him to groan weakly and stand up, pushing through the door before it got too close.

Once he passed through he rubbed his sore behind ruefully. An end to the massive fleshy worm he had seen here before dangled frantically from the ceiling, giving him what appeared to be a cheerful hello. Tiredly he scoffed at it and continued on down the bloody but deserted station. The train on the tracks on the other side had a ghost wandering around inside it, but aside from that there were no dogs or other creatures lurking about.

The low hum of multiple escalators pulled a groan out of Henry, and he stood at the foot of them, staring upwards at how ridiculously long they were. Wall monsters screeched along the escalators, calling to one another, poking their heads out to check the area. Some of them caught sight of him and fixed their faceless gaze upon him. Heaving in a few breaths to prepare himself, he stepped onto the escalator leading upwards, keeping his eye fixed on the wall.

They almost popped out without warning. Henry had to adjust his eyes just enough so he could see when the texture of the wall began to ripple and bulge outwards. By that time he would either duck by throwing himself unceremoniously down onto the escalator steps, or he would gather up enough strength to bring down the axe on one of them, temporarily knocking them unconscious so he could pass before they could groggily recover and slide back into the wall. To his good fortune, he didn't get hit once. He was utterly thankful—there wouldn't be another chance where he would tumble down the up escalator and _not_ break his neck.

Panting, he reached the top unscathed. A hallway down to the left led to a dog pacing near a barricade. Beyond the barricade lay two dog corpses, the remnants of when Henry and Eileen passed down to the Lynch Street Line. The dog seemed content to remain in its corridor of life, so Henry bypassed it and slowly climbed up the stairs, a heavy pendulum swinging from his chest to the beating of his heart. The blood that had sprayed from his chest from when Cynthia dug her icy hand into his ribcage stained his clothes and skin, giving the impression that it came from someone else as there was no wound left. There was a pressure in his chest though—the remnants of the vile attack remained, and his sternum tingled hurtfully with the sensation of her fingers wrapping around it. Coughing to rid himself of the feeling, he climbed the last stair, standing on the edge. Eyes drawn to the floor, he took everything in.

The makeup and other items that Cynthia had left behind scattered between the splotches of blood—including the cracked lipstick—were circled in chalk and numbered with police markers. Everything had some presence of blood on it, whether it was the color or the smell of it drying and rotting. Henry stood there, not willing to pick through it, much less step over it.

Still something caught his eye. A worn, peach-colored ticket the size of a credit card laid near his feet. He bent down. It was the only item in front of him not covered in blood. Picking it up off of the floor, he examined it. It was a commuter ticket for the subway stations. In a faded rectangle a smeared name written in ballpoint was still visible. Cynthia Velasquez, the previous owner of the card. Guilt purged his head as he held the card in his hand. The fact that no blood had defaced it made it wrong to him somehow. Or maybe it was the fact that he was going to use this from now on instead of the dwindling amount of Lynch Street coins he had left. The card felt like a lead anchor, even when he stowed it away in his pocket.

This had been familiar territory to Cynthia, once upon a time. Then she had slipped into a 'dream' and there were no exits to this world. Biting his lip, Henry's fingers brushed the murder scene key next to the commuter card. The way he got out of this world before was by some strange force of magic, the same way he had gotten out of every other world. And it only happened when he had been forced to watch someone die. Picking the key out of his pocket, he tried to stop his fingers from trembling as he approached the door to the turnstile office. Did he and Eileen have to see one more person perish in order to get out of here?

Eileen floated just beyond his vision when he closed his eyes as the key turned. He promised her he'd get her out of here. He also promised Cynthia the same thing, and look where _she_ ended up. Pressing his forehead tiredly against the door he winced and pushed it open with a click and a soundless swing. To save Eileen and then watch her helplessly die only moments after would send him off the brink for good. She had so far been an asset to this nightmarish reality, in both combat and in comfort. Somehow her presence was a reminder that he wasn't going insane. Or, to restate that, he wasn't going insane _alone_. Knowing that someone was falling with him was far more comforting at the moment than having someone escape with him—if 'escape' was such a concept familiar to this world. Personally he wouldn't have picked Eileen if he could choose who would suffer with him. Then again, he wouldn't have picked _anyone_ to suffer with him, as much as it was comforting. He'd much rather go through this alone if it meant sparing someone like his neighbor the pain of the Other World. But no, nothing he had done had been by his choice. It all seemed like a trick, a cheap puppet show where his actions were determined by survival or a sadistic puppeteer. No matter how it really was he didn't _feel_ in control of anything. Carefully he shut the door behind him and stared at the devastation in the room. He wished there was something else, something _real_ that he could go back to. Not even his apartment would accept him without punishment anymore.

_Eileen. Hurry. She's waiting for you. The only 'real' thing you have._

Henry shook himself out of his melancholy trance.

The pool of blood that had not yet been cleaned up rippled gently as his foot stepped in it. The room had begun to smell as the old blood rotted, a sick smell that had an unnatural tang of sweetness to it. It wasn't sugary but it was prominent, making the smell of death capsize Henry's stomach. Papers and cashier machines were strewn everywhere, all of them soaked through with blood. Nothing much had changed since he had last been in here, save for the fact that Cynthia's dyed body had been removed and sent to a morgue. There was a human shaped print on the floor though, splattered but recognizable. It resembled a macabre snow angel, with no wings and a gruesome body pattern. It was the only way to tell what the body had been like at the time of death, as the chalk laid down by the police had smeared and been washed away by the standing blood. Only one corner of the small office was free of red, and in the middle of that corner was a handle, plain and simple, untouched.

Crossing the blood as though it wasn't there, Henry bent down and picked it up. It was a little larger than one end of a bike handle and was smooth, hardly worn from use. The bottom end of it had scars and scrapings, as if it had been forced from its original position. A serial number was printed in the rubber casing of the handle along with a faded scrawl 'King Street', matching it up with the train that ran for one end of this station. What it was doing here he had no idea. He would have idly passed over it if it wasn't the one thing not covered in blood in the room. Looking at the jagged grooves on one end, Henry shrugged and tucked it into his back pocket. It would probably become useful in given time.

He locked the door, leaving the key in the lock when he left. He had no other use for it, and if he kept it the key would serve as nothing as an awful reminder of what happened. Guiltily using Cynthia's ticket, he slipped through the turnstiles down back to the Lynch Street Line, where Eileen was waiting.

--

Eileen slept.

Perhaps 'slept' isn't the right word. Neither is 'dozed' or any other word, as all of those words describe a peaceful enchantment where the body resets itself in preparation for the trials and tasks yet to come. As much as she was tired and aching her body wouldn't allow her any rest. She sat there in the most painless position she could get herself into, head tilted back against the craggy, moldy wall and legs stretched out in front of her in a V that wouldn't be defined as classy.

Her feet hurt. Her legs hurt. Her body, her arms, her hands, her fingertips, her neck, her head, her eyes, they all hurt. Some ached, some bled, some _screamed_. Every other breath she took would come out in a sharp wince, only hurting her more. Things had been plausible at first when her neighbor had come to escort her through this nightmare; back then she was only hurt in a few ways as her wounds were fresh from the attack. Now, after walking nonstop and defending herself (and Henry) mercilessly, her body showed her new ways to feel pain, draining her energy and leaving her as an empty shell on the floor of the room. Her chest heaved up and down, her extreme tiredness overcoming the pain and allowing her to drift into unconsciousness.

Somehow, though, she wished she had stayed awake.

She didn't remember much, but she remembered the fear. In all of the chaos and the choppiness she remembered the fear. Visions flashed before her, ugly, horrifying, prophetic.

A woman's body hung by her nipples, skin white but streaked with blood that wasn't her own. In place of a face was a sharp, long cone, rusted from age and nailed cruelly to the woman's head. The body, arms crossed across the chest, swung back and forth, undulating and contorting. Sometimes it looked like the woman was in pain, at other times it looked like she was deep in ecstasy. Eileen felt as though she wasn't seeing this 'trophy' through her eyes, but through another's. Because as soon as she turned her head away suddenly _she_ was the one suspended by wire, face shielded by something tight and suffocating. She writhed, naked, screaming. Nothing came out of her throat, and even if it did, it was muted by nothing more than the cruelty of the dream.

She fell.

Someone was falling with her, a man, tied in a barbed straightjacket, eyes carved out and replaced with bloody numbers not unlike the ones that marred her back. The man screamed, cried, reciting scriptures of ancient nonsense. He looked familiar.

Her head jerked upwards as her hair became caught in a grimy hand. The man in the coat stood over her, eyes gleaming in thirst. His smile was warm and dangerous. Eileen faltered in his shadow right before he came down on her. With his malicious hands he groped her—not her body, but her _soul—_reaching down into her, rearranging what used to be her, choked her with his presence, tore out who she was and replaced it with _him_, everything now revolved around _him_ and she was his slave because _he_ decided it so. _He_ was now everything she should be, and as the fingers toyed with her skin she believed it to be true.

More hands, this time holding her physical body.

God, she was being _raped_ already, and now she was going to be raped again while the other wasn't yet finished. The new hands closed around her shoulders, thick, rough, clumsy. They were soft at first, but continued to press into her, holding her down, taking her hostage, making sure she wouldn't go anywhere even though there was nowhere to go, nowhere to run, no escape because _he_ was with her the entire time and she'd never be rid of _him_ as long as she lived because she couldn't go anywhere else, couldn't run, couldn't defend herself, couldn't sleep, couldn't think, couldn't, couldn't, couldn't...

"Wake up," a voice murmured, troubled, "Eileen, wake up, wake up...,"

Eileen stirred. The hands that had groped and violated her soul retreated into the background the more the voice talked, the more the hands around her shoulders tightened in anxiety.

"_Wake up,_" it repeated softly, desperate.

A low shiver traveled down Eileen's back and for just a moment, just one heavenly moment, her body relaxed and dove from the pain. Then, feeling as though she plummeted down from a skyscraper, she rocketed back to the earth and with a startled jerk she opened her good eye.

She barely focused her sight enough to hinder her scream in time as she saw Henry's face inches from hers. Instead a spasm shook her body and she inhaled sharply, pressing her back against the wall. Henry recoiled from holding her shoulders, carefully stepping back and away from her. Eileen coughed and panted as though she had run a marathon, staring directly ahead at Henry. He bowed his head, thick hair falling in front of his eyes, ashamed. She allowed him to be.

Minutes passed where neither of them said anything, the only thing breaking the silence were each other's breaths. Eventually Eileen calmed herself down, leaning her head back again and breathing deeply but shakily. Scratching the back of his head, Henry tentatively stood. Nervous, he hovered about Eileen until she opened her eye and looked at him.

Him standing above her like that nearly made her cry again, his height towering over her even as he shifted slowly from foot to foot. She tried to keep control of her breaths by keeping them deep though their rate doubled as she stared at him. He muttered something incomprehensible under his breath before he ducked down.

Eileen flinched and he hesitated, hand outstretched. Bringing her knees closer to her body, she watched him closely as he clumsily uttered a truthful apology before he reached down again, picking up the axe that he had laid down next to her thigh. Retreating, he held the weapon loosely, no intention of attack visible. Eileen relaxed her tense muscles as much as she could, and let her legs slide out again. Maybe someday she'd learn to stop being paranoid of him. After all, he led her this far only with good intentions. It seemed as though her first impressions may have been wrong.

She bit her lip and furrowed her brow. First impressions have a funny way of being correct when you think they aren't. She wouldn't slip up yet.

"Are you okay?" he asked quietly. Eileen blinked and looked at him, confused. He repeated the question a little louder, standing in the far corner slightly bent over with poor posture.

"What do you mean?" Eileen responded. _Moreover, what did you _see?_ What did you _hear?

"It's just...ah...you weren't sleeping well," he mumbled, running a hand through his hair, "Just...wanted to know if you were alright,"

Eileen pressed her lips tightly together, damming up the ocean of words she was about to scream at him, telling him every last aspect of her nightmare. She nodded slowly, mechanically, though her stare cracked her mask as every truth she was hiding swam in her eyes.

"Did anything happen?" Henry asked again, suddenly. His voice gained volume from its previous softness, and his posture straightened as his muscles tensed up.

Blinking again, Eileen replied in a soft but sure 'no.' Henry let out a sigh in small breaths and, mimicking what she had done, tilted his head back against the wall for comfort. She continued to stare at him, calculating, watching his chest slowly rise and fall with his breaths. After he had calmed somewhat, she scraped her knees close to her again, getting her feet under as much as possible before, using the wall and nearby pipes for help, standing up.

Politely Henry kept his eyes closed and didn't watch. He heard everything though, from the feeble scrapings of her heels to the sputtered cries that accidentally flew past her lips. If this kept happening, one of these times Henry would go against her wishes and violate his own personal bubble just to help her to stand. She was alive, yes.

But from what he had seen as she sat there sleeping, she was _not_ okay.

Gently he took her hand as she stood up, waiting for her to catch her breath completely before leading her out of the small room. Silently he led her back through the subway labyrinth, doing his best to ignore the mannequin limbs and swallowing hard to hold his breath when they passed by Cynthia. Eileen stared down at the pinned ghost, feeling Henry's hand tighten around hers as they passed. The fight with the ghost was implanted clearly in her brain. Everything from when it first appeared to the moment it was pinned helplessly to the ground.

She glanced at the back of Henry's head. His entire chest was stained anew with his blood from when the ghost wench had impaled it. Eileen saw no evidence of a wound, and he seemed to get along fine (if not beaten up) by what happened, so she didn't question it too much.

However, she did worry about it. She worried about what would've happened if she hadn't snapped and beaten the ghost out and away from him. Similarly, the ghost didn't seem to need to _touch_ him to hurt him. Eileen only felt a sharp chill when it was around, but Henry had doubled over in mind-numbing pain, becoming almost utterly useless. What happened then could happen again, as Eileen got the feeling the ghost wench wasn't the only ghost she was going to see.

As the pinned ghost was left far behind them, Henry eased his grip on her. In turn, she tightened hers on him, her mind filled with thoughts of him contorted in inexplicable pain. It occurred to her then that he never answered her question about what happened the first time they saw the ghost. She made a mental note to ask him again.

But not now.

Henry took out a cream-colored card from his pocket as they ascended to the turnstiles. Allowing Eileen to go first through the turnstile (with a little help from him in pushing through) he continued onwards to the King Street side. With Eileen trailing behind he easily ignored the obstacles on the floor by weaving around them.

However, Eileen saw them and did not ignore. She stared wide-eyed at the strewn contents of a woman's purse, riddled with blood and circled and numbered with police chalk. She faltered for a moment before following Henry down the stairs.

"This...," she sputtered, causing Henry to stop in the middle of the staircase and look up at her, "Is this what happened earlier this week?"

Henry blinked at her, rubbed his temples as he tried to calculate day and date. Her lips quivered as she stepped down to his level.

"There were ambulances just outside this station...Was this it?"

Henry stiffened and turned away from her. Eileen blinked in shock and glanced back up at the door to the turnstile office. Starting to walk again, Henry moved with a grudging sharpness that wasn't smooth or comfortable at all.

"I heard something on the news...Henry, was this it?" She reached out and touched his arm, still a few steps above the bottom, where he stood. To her surprise he cringed at the touch of her fingers though she had held him tighter in the past and he had no reaction. His head whipped back to stare at her, eyes shining behind the thick curtain of hair. She flinched but fixed her gaze on him. Where Eileen expected anger however there was only an overwhelming amount of anxiety and sadness.

He did not speak.

Eileen held him there, staring. When he tried to gently wriggle away from her she dug her nails into his arm so hard that he winced and shifted so it wouldn't hurt as much. Looking down and away from her, he waited until her patience ran out and she let him go. It wasn't very long until it happened; she could see clearly that she wasn't getting an answer out of him. Henry turned his back to her and walked toward the low humming of an escalator. She followed, wary of how his steps had changed. The axe was now gripped tightly in the palm of his hand. Keeping back a few paces from him, Eileen wondered if she shouldn't have brought up the subject. When she had glanced shortly into the office she saw blood smeared against the walls, not unlike what had happened in her apartment. She knew it wasn't Henry that had attacked her there, and it was quite possible that the same person who attacked her attacked the victim found in the turnstile as well.

But still, she didn't know enough. But still _you need to stop. Stop. He hasn't _done_ anything yet. Give him a Goddamn chance._

(_I gave the man in the coat a chance and look where it got me_)

Henry turned around as if he had read her thoughts. Eileen stopped abruptly before she walked straight into him. He was right in front of the down escalators, and was looking at her in pain, as if dreading to go down.

What, was he afraid of them? Afraid of heights? Glancing to the side of him Eileen could see that it was a long way down—almost too long. Had they been this long before?

He bit his chapped lip, eyes giving her injuries a once-over.

"Stay behind me," he said seriously, "And try to keep low."

Eileen stepped onto the platform right before the steps steadily slid out from beneath it. Henry shifted uneasily and shook the axe in his hand, as if preparing for something. She glanced down to the axe before back up at him.

"What...?" she asked quietly. Henry turned around and, hesitating, stepped onto the escalator.

"Keep your eyes on the walls," he warned quietly. Eileen glanced in uneasiness at the gore-covered concrete surrounding them, and limped onto the escalator a few steps behind him. Henry took in deep breaths, and glanced back at her, making sure she was still there and standing. Cries that were anything but synchronized and human bounded off of the narrow walls. Eileen jerked and looked at him, but he had already turned and raised the axe, hand gripping it like a miser to his gold.

Sweat dripped down the back of Henry's neck. He hadn't even _tried_ this before—there was no assurance that this was going to work. If it wasn't going to, he'd have to lay flat on the escalator with Eileen, which, as would be expected, cause a lot of pain for the both of them. Squinting his eyes despite the dim light, he waited as the escalator carried them slowly downwards. The anticipation was eating him from the inside out.

Then it appeared. The wall shifted, and the humanoid torso stretched out, roaring. For whatever reason, Henry shut his eyes and swung with the most power he had.

Almost faltering and tumbling down the stairs, he let out a short scream that in another time and place could be considered a battle cry as he swung the axe blindly down. The wall demon was hit in the middle of its deadly swing, and Henry opened his eyes in shock to see the axe crash down bloodlessly on its head. The wall demon shuddered and tried to rise before falling limp. The escalator passed by underneath it as it dangled down, unconscious. Both Eileen and Henry stared at it, a sort of happiness in Henry that made him want to smile for odd reasons.

It had worked.

Eileen looked back to see the monster jolt back to life and retreat back into the wall. There was no evidence it had ever been there in the first place. Henry raised the axe again, and Eileen redirected her attention to ahead. There was still a long way to go until the end. She tensed up, ready to duck at a moment's notice if Henry missed.

Things went methodically. The monsters almost always showed up with just enough time for Henry to knock them unconscious. They passed by without harm. With the bottom in sight, Eileen had begun to relax, along with Henry who managed to do so while still staying alert.

Another monster popped out. Henry swung at it with practiced ease (though the term should be used loosely as he burned all over from the aches and pains) and it fell limp. He had barely enough time to readjust his hold on the axe when another demon, right after the other, melted out of the wall and swung its wiry arms at him.

It happened in slow motion. First the shock of another monster almost instantaneously appearing threw both Henry and Eileen off, then the notion of fear rising up in their chest as the deformed clawed hand swung forward. Henry saw it part the air in between it and him, and he let out a cry in anticipation of the hit.

The claw smacked him square in the chin, rocking his head back and shutting his mouth so that he bit his tongue, drawing a familiar coppery taste to cloud his senses. Eileen screamed as he careened backwards, landing disgracefully at her feet in a horrendous position and a rough grunt of pain. The back of his head whip-lashed onto a stair, sending sparks of pain dancing through his body. Groaning as dots of color swam in front of his eyes, he felt new blood trickling out of his chin, mouth, and the back of his head. The world became soup as sounds and sights blended together, and he twitched, wishing he was comfortable enough to go to sleep so he could make it all stop. Roughly blinking, he tried to clear his vision as Eileen knelt down, her hand resting on his collar bone, the riding crop crossing down his chest. The wall monster remained poised above her, and it drew back its hand to lash out again.

Nobody really knew what had happened until long after it had been finished. Only one thought had crossed his mind at that moment, causing everything to pinwheel into place.

_She's not low enough!!_

Running on only crazy survival instincts, Henry gave a pained growl and reached up, wrapping his rubbery arms around Eileen's neck. She screamed heartily in response, making the colors in front of his eyes swim faster with more ferocity. Growling still despite her, he pulled her down, hands splaying across her shoulders and back. Why he was growling he had no idea—perhaps it was his own little cry of pain as every muscle in his arm screamed against him, perhaps it was because his vocal cords weren't working and he was really warning Eileen to get down. Either way, he was growling, and so help him but it felt good.

She screamed again, this time pained. Her legs forcibly crumbled beneath her to comply with Henry's wishes, feeling like they were a pane of glass that had just been shattered into an impossible number of pieces. Gripping her as securely as he could through the cold sweat that coated her shoulders and back, he pressed her down despite the popping noises that sparked from her back and his arms. Eileen began to sob, and the hand on his chest constricted into a fist to help endure. A squeal escaped between sobs as the wall demon swung down, clipping at her hair and barely missing her skull. Henry felt the wind rush past them and was half-heartedly relieved. Eileen bent her head down, continuing to sob as the escalator whirred, her short hair falling and sticking to the tears on her face. Henry kept his arms where they were, keeping her pressed low just in case the monsters weren't done yet. Her cast scraped the tip of his nose, edging forward a possible sneeze.

He needed to sneeze, but between the blended effect of the monster's screeches, Eileen's sobbing, the colors swimming in front of him, and the blackness oozing at the corners of his vision, sleep seemed like a better possibility. When was the last time he naturally slept anyways? All the trips to and from the alternate realities didn't count.

The wind of one more demon's swing whooshed passed them overhead. Eileen lost her breath the moment the clawed arm passed by, once again scraping at her hair but not doing any real damage. Shivering, she scooted closer to Henry, the top of his head resting between her bruised knees. His grip on her weakened, and as the escalator pushed them to the bottom allowing him to roll off his arms fell limply from her shoulders as he let out a held-in sigh.

Eileen crawled off after him, quiet tears still streaming down her face, cutting a path through the blood and grime. Setting the riding crop on the ground, she lifted a shaking hand and gently hovered over Henry's chin, where a nasty bruise and cut allowed blood to freely cascade down his jaw and neck.

"Henry...,"

He was dozing quietly, his chest rising and falling a little brokenly, indicating that he had been wounded there at some point. Every now and then a soft snore would emit from his nose, accompanied by tiny bits of red from his nostrils. Moans of ghosts that were uncomfortably close echoed in the dark, bloody station. Bits of limbs that were indistinguishable from mannequin or human littered the place, especially where a kiosk should've been. Inside a train sitting dead on the tracks she could see the movement of two ghosts within. Underneath it all though, she recognized this place. It was sorely familiar. She shivered. Biting her lip, she gathered what courage she had and, using one finger, touched the center of his chin.

As though she had used an air horn, Henry's eyes flashed open within an instant, accompanied by a short cry. Flinching Eileen jerked her hand away and behind her back as Henry moaned, facing away from her.

"Sorry, I just...," _Don't feel safe._

He muttered something incomprehensible in response, and slowly eased his burning body to a sitting position, wincing through his teeth as he did it. They sat there at the end of the escalator as Henry struggled to pull the pieces together of what had just happened and why all the colors were off in the world. He was quite sure Eileen wasn't wearing a sickly green-tinged dress the last time he saw her.

Hell, everything was tinged green anyways. It took a lot of blinks and head-shaking to start to turn things into a more normal color. Ghosts moaned off in the distance. Just what he needed. At least their auras weren't as strong compared to Cynthia's. Still, in his near-coma condition, any amount of extra pain now will probably send him asleep for the next few years. Not that he'd complain. He felt like he had been run over by a semi truck a few times just for shits and giggles. Hey, at least some of the fear was receding, replaced by boredom of repetition.

Ugh, he was getting quirky. Did he get a concussion when he landed on the escalator?

Henry tenderly rubbed the back of his head while the world still decided to spin around him. Eileen watched him carefully, finally breaking the silence as he brought his hand back to examine the crusty blood it picked up.

"I know this place," she murmured. Henry made a poor attempt at raising his head in attention as she continued, "King Street Line. When I was little I used to take this subway a lot, back when I lived in North Ashfield,"

He stared then shrugged at her, the shrug coming uncoordinated and disjointed, as if his brain wasn't exactly connected with his muscles. Subways weren't his main way of travel—he had his battered old sedan to take him to the odd job he had and the photoshoot opportunities, and that suited him just fine. Besides, it was private, _much_ unlike the subway. He had taken it a few times sure. Stress on the _few_. So in turn he forced his lips and vocal cords to work against their will, and pushed out a question.

"Is thereaway outta here them?"

Concussion indeed.

Eileen glanced around at the deserted station and the broken cars, "There's a platform behind that train," she motioned, "I think there was a door there or something."

Nodding, Henry adjusted his position so a hand helped prop him up, "This King Street Line?" he asked, a little slurred.

Eileen stared at him curiously for a moment before confirming slowly that it was. Henry nodded again as if he really got that (when he didn't) and reached into his back pocket, pulling out the train handle he had picked up from the murder scene.

"'S something I got," he explained, "Think it says King Street. Or maybe Lynf. Don't remember,"

Eileen continued to stare at him hard. He kept on mumbling like a homeless drunkard shuffling along the streets. In all of the years she had known him, and within the couple hours she had _really_ known him, she had not heard him talk this much in one sitting. That, and he had miraculously somehow gotten deeply drunk during the period of riding the escalator.

"Henry," she interrupted him. When he didn't respond she spoke again with a firmer voice, "_Henry_."

"Hrrn?" he muttered, looking up at her. Holding up three fingers, she looked at him directly in the eye.

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

Henry squinted at her hand for quite some time before answering, "What fingers?"

"...Lie down, Henry."

"Hrrn?"

"Lie down," she repeated, chancing a glance behind her. The ghosts seemed to be confined to the train car. That was more than alright with her. She looked back at him, "Go to sleep." Sleeping escorts may have made her uneasy, but tipsy escorts were even worse. Besides, she'd be there to wake him up if anything happened, really.

"I dun wanna lie down," Henry slurred. Eileen flashed him a dangerous glance as he continued, "Head kinda hurts,"

"_Lie down,_" she instructed again, "_Because_ your head hurts, you should lie down,"

Henry rubbed the uninjured side of his head before surrendering with a sullen 'mohkay' before sliding down to the floor. As soon as he was down, he went out like a light, back into the broken-breath, soft sleep he had been in before Eileen had woken him up. He was slightly curled into a rough fetal position, feet closest to her.

Eileen looked around. They were in a small alcove that protected the stairway up. Looking back at Henry she was at least glad he had enough sense left in him that he didn't lie down _on_ the escalators themselves. Or maybe it was dumb luck. From the words he was spouting it sure sounded like he had suffered brain damage when he took that hit from the wall monster. Really, it wasn't that surprising. But she didn't like it at all that it had happened. By letting him fall asleep again she could have urged him into a days-long coma, or may have just made matters worse by doing nothing for the brain damage. Or, God help her, if he woke up with _amnesia_. She'd love not to dwell on _that one_.

With some difficulty she shifted from her seat, sitting herself back down in the space between Henry's body and the midsection of the dual escalators. Placing a hand on his shoulder, she felt him sleep peacefully. Once again, she was jealous. Jealous that he had been so easily conked out that he couldn't dream, jealous that though he must have hurt like hell he could stay asleep. And, as painful as it would be, jealous that he might just wake up with amnesia, temporarily forgetting the horrors of this world for just a blissful few minutes before relearning them all over again. Curling her fingers around the shoulder of his shirt, she sat there, keeping watch. Henry slept just in front of her, underneath the weak protection of her hand, oblivious.

Vowing to never fall asleep again in this world, Eileen kept her weary eyes open, the sound of her pounding heart and the moans of the ghosts the only things to keep her company.


	17. Chapter 17

_There's a lot of things to say. First off, I'm immensely sorry for the unannounced, unplanned hiatus. What happened, if you don't know, is something of a horrendous creative block that just killed everything I wrote for this story the moment I touched it. I really don't want to discuss how many times this chapter has been rewritten. It was...a lot. And it was rewritten when it only had two pages to it. If I had to guesstimate, I'd say I rewrote the beginning to this at least seven, maybe ten times. (By the time the final draft came around it was named "Draft number FUCK") It really wasn't a good time for me. xD I don't know what it was either, the words just wouldn't work. I'm still not very happy with the beginning, but it's a hell of a lot better than before and hopefully it suffices. But for some reason, recently, things just seem to click and I'm glad. I got back into relearning things about SH4 and when I opened up a guiding video I literally sat there with an unchanging expression muttering about how I forgot how attractive Henry is. Going back through and rereading some of the chapters also appeared to me that the little benchmarkers/breakups in the story have been erased. Hrrm. This may make me a little grumpy, but it's a good opportunity to go through, edit, and repost, anyways. (Doing that will help me get my bearing again.)_

_I know this is a long opening comment but I just have a few more things to say. Because the hiatus was so long, I lost my bearing on some things-items, injuries, etc. I'm somewhat starting over with a clean slate here, at least until I scrape up enough notes again. Another thing; the diary found in Forest World will not be fully read. I was originally planning to have Eileen go through the entire thing, but then I learned something new: Apparently doing that gets her more possessed. Holy shit! I didn't know that! So she's only going to go through a few of them (and, well, I don't think I ever read all of them in the game anyways) Also, there will be nine total (I think?) hauntings that I'll go through. Mostly my favorite ones, I guess. Also, I'm not paying attention to the level of hauntings and their correlation to Eileen. That's about as much as I can think of right now, as far as little notes on the story go.  
_

_As an ending note, I'm also forever grateful for everyone who has given me reviews over the hiatus-I love you guys, seriously._

_Okay, FINALLY. Enjoy!_

_

* * *

_**Chapter 17**

About twenty minutes had passed when Henry slowly began to crawl out of his unconsciousness. It wasn't a pleasant return. Eileen could clearly see that as time passed. His breaths became shallower, his face no longer remaining peacefully still. He began to mumble uneasily, twitching and wincing in his sleep. Carefully Eileen brushed her fingers along his arm, trying to lull him back into a sense of tranquility.

It didn't work.

What Henry saw Eileen would never know. Soon whatever he was dreaming became so violent that she was able to discern words from otherwise contorted nonsense. Drawing a tentative breath to hold back the urge to wake him, she gripped her hand tighter around his shoulder. To be fair, he looked like hell, even more so than her simply because he had not been bandaged up by anyone professional. She held her hand firmly where it was, trying to protect him from injuring himself further. Eileen knew that he needed what little rest he could grasp.

"Henry?" Eileen whispered softly, afraid as he became more and more distressed.

Eileen tensed as his voice rose in intensity and pitch, digging her nails into his skin. Tears began to run down his cheeks. The name of a woman littered his mumbled words, spoken as if he was looking for forgiveness; a sort of thing that she was a little shocked to hear. Sure, she didn't see him roam about much outside of the apartments, and she had never in her memory seen him with another woman, but even still the despair in his words surprised her.

Henry's voice clambered into a shriek and he thrashed, clawing at the bloodied spot on his chest. Eileen shouted though he could not hear her over his own screams. Ghosts in the train began to respond, having finally sniffed out their presence. Senses in Eileen's head lit up like wildfire. Writhing violently, he freed himself from her grasp. She tried to calm and soothe him by stroking his hair, even gathering enough bravery to touch his cheek. (She shied away from brushing his prickly stubble.) Drawn by his constant clawing and tearing she looked at his chest. If she could reach his sternum she knew of a brilliant (if painful) way to wake him up instantly—she hadn't paid extra money to take a CPR class for nothing. That option, however, was not available. Twisting her lip, she watched pitifully as he continued to struggle with his subconscious.

Then she reached down and picked up the riding crop.

–

First there was pain. _Real_ pain. A horrible stinging in the center of his cheek—exactly where the gorilla's fist had bruised him. It didn't seem nearly as shatteringly painful as the ghost's hand that had plunged into his chest, but as time wore on his cheek began to light on fire. Unable to ignore it any longer, he turned his attention to finding the source of the pain, something that wasn't a part of his nightmare.

Forced to waken with a yelp of indignity, he squirmed away from the flashes of pain that had been striking continuously. He weakly flailed his arms, hopeful to end the assault. Unsuccessful, he curled farther up into a trembling fetal position. Trembling not because he was afraid or cold, but from the strain it had on his overused body. After several following moments of not being eaten or killed, he unfurled, wincing when his joints creaked in protest. Tenderly feeling his cheek, he drew his hand back when he felt warm liquid. He sat up.

Eileen was staring at him, wide-eyed with the crop raised high. As soon as he laid eyes on her she quickly tucked the whip behind her back as though she was a child hiding incriminating evidence. Henry kept his gaze on her as his eyes refocused. They were both silent for a long time. Whether there really wasn't anything to say or whether the situation was too strange to acknowledge, they didn't know. It was as if anything they could say would only be hitting a brick wall.

Smearing the blood on his cheek that felt like hot oil between his fingers, he looked down to where the train handle had fallen between his feet. Picking it up, he stared across to the train, where the door to the front car had been slammed shut from a violent crash.

"King Street," Eileen supplied warily. Henry nodded with a soft affirmation, making Eileen relax. At the very least, he did not have amnesia.

Wobbling on their feet, they stood up and approached the car, Henry all too aware of the ghosts inside. Another faint headache at the middle of his forehead began to swim around, forcing him to remember the nightmare he had just awoken from. He felt sorely dizzy. Eileen watched as he stood there, swaying this way and that. Touching his arm gently, she spoke in a kind voice.

"You okay?"

He swallowed awkwardly, giving her a moment's glance, "Fine,"

She gave his arm a little squeeze, and he made it a point to steady himself so that she wouldn't worry over him. Eileen blinked in response, and took her hand away, changing the subject as she peered through the windows.

"I see the other side," she voiced thoughtfully, staring past the twisted metal, "But it's blocked." Backing away from the windows she looked to Henry. Taking a deep breath, he motioned for her to follow as he walked beside the train, searching for an opening. He wished to get this done quickly, hoping that the train handle would somehow help them and not be just a useless item found out of place.

Ignoring the pain, he clumsily maneuvered around the restless spirits. Eileen quickly fell behind, finding the two ghosts between them. They paid her no mind, only lusting for Henry's flesh. Gripping the riding crop, she kept them preoccupied, relentlessly flogging them to the floor. They could not advance without attacking her, yet they still continued to pay her no heed, always craning their necks in Henry's direction. A question of why the ghosts completely ignored her bothered the back of her mind, but as of now it was greatly beneficial and she did not think. She only allowed herself to act.

Henry slipped through the thin car doors to the front, hearing Eileen's rough breaths; each one given for each swing of the riding crop. Trying to be quick, his eyes skimmed over the control panel before him. Finding a damaged spot where a handle should have been, he gave a fleeting prayer and jammed the detached train handle in the empty space, pushing forward. He truly had no idea what he was doing, but whatever he had done seemed to work as the broken train lurched forward, sputtered, and came to a sharp halt as the wheels screeched and sparked against the uneven tracks. Henry grabbed onto the control panel to steady himself as the train tossed them back and forth like ragdolls. Behind him Eileen grasped the framework of the seats, struggling to stay standing. The ghosts were flung to the ground, hovering just above the floor of the subway. When the train had stopped completely and every last sound of metal screeching against metal had ceased, Henry uneasily let go of the control panel, returning to Eileen. The entire train had moved about one car length, and a passageway to the small platform on the other side was now open. Before the ghosts could rise up again, Henry led Eileen to the platform, helping her step over the gap between the car and the concrete. The platform ended with a small rusted door at the bottom of the staircase.

Perched against the corner of a wall was another wooden Sword. Eileen waited patiently as he picked it up, juggling it until he successfully tucked it underneath his arm before he opened the door. Accepting his out-of-place chivalry, she entered first into the wider room that dropped into an abyss both sides of a sidewalk-sized path straight to another doorway. Henry felt an unbelievably frigid shiver freeze his spine gazing into the dark abyss. Averting his eyes, he pushed Eileen to venture forward. Still at an untraceable unease, he glanced back.

There, behind them, was a man. His coat was dark and blood-splattered, his hair was a ragged shoulder-length, and in his hand he raised a gun aimed directly for Henry's head.

Eileen turned around to see what Henry was staring at, and she froze, gazing in raw fear and distant anger at the figure in the coat. The gun in the man's hand did not move while they were rooted there, and a smirk graced his murky features.

Henry panicked.

Seizing Eileen by the wrist, he lunged forth, ducking low and forcing her to run low with him. A shot fired off behind them, chipping the concrete on the door in front of them. Eileen sputtered, no doubt a failed scream, but before it could grow Henry shouldered the door, the outcry that his muscles gave muffled by blazing adrenaline. Despite having no adequate strength whatsoever, it opened with just enough space for them to slip through before it shut with an echoing boom.

Pushed forward by momentum, Henry nearly careened into another foggy white abyss, stopped only by the flimsy wire railing and the weight of Eileen as she tripped and collapsed onto the narrow pathway, bringing him down beside her. They both panted heavily for several minutes, Eileen curling up and coughing into her knees. Henry studied the door intensely, making sure that the man would not pass through. He had seen that man twice before, once when he traversed the decrepit apartments to save Eileen and later when he had first entered the hospital to find her.

There was no question as to if he was following them. Henry just didn't know why.

Beside him, Eileen struggled to pull herself up, shivering violently as she did so. Scraping his feet on the tiles, he soon followed her urgency to continue. She did not attempt to meet his gaze and kept her head down though she pressed him onwards. Henry obliged, glancing back often not only to make sure that the man in the coat did not follow them but also to make sure that Eileen was alright. She kept so close to him that he was afraid that if her shoe caught on a groove of the stair she would tumble down and there would be nothing he could do to stop her, much less avoid tumbling down with her.

Out loud, he did not question her odd behavior. But he observed it from afar, and it didn't take a genius to piece together why she was so distant without warning. Stepping softly in an effort to bring an aura of calm despite the crescendo of the echoes, he kept a wary eye on the gruesome displays to the lefts and the rights. Framed by rusted industrial steel and chain linked fences, a scene between two mannequins, one a superior, one a beggar, was depicted solemnly. Behind him Eileen paused to stare at it in wonder before racing to catch up with him.

The blood on the staircase seemed to grow brighter the further they descended. Perhaps it was Henry's imagination, but he soon dismissed that it couldn't be that vivid. If anything he was seeing so much blood that by now it should've faded into a dark shade of gray. (He really wished it would just fade into gray. He was beginning to hate that color.) The blood splotched steps continued downwards into the fog, spanning out to the bridge that branched off precariously into nothing. Feeling as though his eyes were bloodshot (and they were) Henry turned to the left towards the chunk of suspended wall. To Eileen it looked nothing more than a plaque of tile. To him, his mind nearly broke if he stared at it too hard, the tunnel diving into deep darkness even though there was nothing behind the wall. Henry turned around to face Eileen.

"Another hole...," he explained. Eileen stared up at him. There was still a hint of disbelief in her expression, but moreso than not now all he saw was an overwhelming forlornness. His stomach twisted as he stared at her.

"Henry...," she whispered.

"Yeah?" he answered, barely saving himself from stuttering.

"What if—,"

Henry shut his eyes tight, causing Eileen to halt in her sentence. He mentally pushed the thoughts from his mind to hers, willing the words that he couldn't speak to comfort her.

_Don't think about it. Wait for me. I won't be long. Don't think about it._

He turned around and climbed into the hole, letting it defy physics and take him back to his apartment.

–

He put the Sword away in the trunk. Nothing was out of the ordinary, nothing new. No new poltergeists, no new notes, nothing. It was a nice release for once. At one point though he had thought he heard the clock tick. Further inspection proved no abnormalities with it, aside from the fact that it still wasn't working. Henry sighed. Grabbing a few painkillers for his head, he downed two and pocketed four more. He briefly wondered how much of those he had consumed in the past day, and if at one point he would collapse from an overdose and never wake up.

Despite Eileen, despite everything, he found it relieving to know just how benevolent that thought felt to him right now.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes though the sleep could never leave his eyes, he climbed back into the hole.

–

"That was him," Eileen whispered hoarsely after Henry had arrived at her feet. Looking up at her curiously, he stood up, remaining quiet for her to continue, "That was him."

"Who?" Henry asked when she didn't elaborate.

"That...man," She scrunched up her face and buried it in her free hand, her voice fighting past her emotion, "He was the one that...In my apartment, he—,"

Drawing in a breath through his teeth, Henry reached his arm out and touched hers. It was something that he wouldn't normally do, and it was something that happened without his conscious functioning properly. Eileen stopped and choked on her breath, looking up at him. Realizing what he had done, Henry dropped his arm and stiffened in embarrassment.

"Don't...think about it," he finally managed to say after what felt like an eternity of an awkward silence. Eileen continued to stare at him like a lost puppy. Uncomfortable, Henry uneasily slid past her and gestured towards the ever-spiraling staircase. Through the fog he thought he could see a door, closer than he would've suspected. He began to walk, quickening his steps to a normal pace only after he heard Eileen limp after him.

Henry opened the door to a quiet graveyard illuminated by torches placed in the alcoves of the walls situated in the corners. It was an old, uncared for graveyard that suffered many damages from rain, wind, and robbers. The dense forest was dark and silent, the only noise from the constant low buzz of the lamps above them, washing the scene in a sorry orange. It was so quiet it was almost serene, the only respect the graveyard had here. They stepped forward onto the soft, cushy ground. Nothing greeted them, which was a short, happy release despite how lonely it looked. Still keeping his guard, Henry walked out into the graveyard carefully. Eileen followed until her attention diverted to the upturned grave amidst all the others.

"This graveyard isn't really well taken care of, huh...?" she mentioned as she looked at the upturned grave in pity. Henry was about to respond in affirmation, when he saw something move within the open coffin. Creasing his brow in thought, he took a few steps forward.

Five or six moths erupted from the bed of the coffin. Henry raised the axe and stepped backwards as the moths swarmed towards them. Eileen limped up beside him, separated by a gravestone. Swinging the axe, he brought a multitude of the swarm to the ground. A sharp little sting struck his shoulder blade, followed by a small body toppling down his back. Eileen grunted and maneuvered around the gravestone, ending the fallen moth's life with a quick stab of the heel of her shoe. Henry finished the rest quickly. They had startled him, but offered nothing more but a nuisance.

Eileen stared at the empty coffin. Henry approached her, seeing her expression from the side. She shivered as the air shifted about from his presence.

"Those numbers...Whose coffin is this?"

Henry stared down at the coffin. Whose coffin _was_ this, anyways? He had read about Joseph's speculations, had read about 11/21 and had been piecing together the mystery in his own mind ever since this started. He had his own theories about Walter Sullivan and this religious cult, but whether or not to tell Eileen would be a different story.

"I don't know," he answered. To be honest, he didn't. He _really_ didn't.

Eileen turned away from the numbers, feeling her own burn on her back. As Henry continued to stare in thought at the coffin, she stepped away. Ultimately she could've figured out that she was just another gear in a big spinning machine of a psychopath, but to see the evidence in its reality made her body mentally shut down. Keeping herself calm despite things, she opened an eye to distract herself by staring into nothing. She found herself staring at writing and reading what it said in her mind.

_October 1. He told me I could write whatever I wanted because nobody will ever see it. I like to write. My teacher taught me how._

She squinted and the words shifted into an unknown language. Staring harder, she realized that the words never shifted into an unknown language—they were always unrecognizable curves and lines that didn't resemble any kind of language that civilization ever wrote. And she, who had taken archeology classes in college out of pure interest, knew what the script looked for many civilizations, both lost and modern.

"Henry," she called to him, limping up to the stone where the scribbles were written. Henry followed her, glancing at the stone. Recognizing it as one of the many writings that he couldn't read, he looked to her blankly. Eileen twisted her mouth and stared at the stone, distantly troubled.

"I can read this writing...it looks like some sort of diary. Here goes...," She did her best to brush off Henry's raised eyebrows of genuine surprise and read off of the stone, "_October 2. I played with Bob. It was fun, but I went too far away and "he" got angry._"

She looked at him, mildly confused but intrigued in a terrified way. Henry shared her sentiment, and turned, searching the graves. Finding one with a bigger stone than most, he located more of the red writing. Eileen limped up and looked to the stone. Taking in a breath, she read it out loud for him.

"_October 3. I played with Bob again. I went even further this time..._The writing fades out after that...," Inhaling shakily, she focused her sights on Henry and not the odd writing. She didn't like reading that diary. Whenever she spoke the words in perfect English, the outlandishness of the unfamiliar alphabet seemed to crawl under her tongue, raking against her vocal cords in glee as she read the words. Feeling as though she had drank a few shots of hard liquor, her head buzzed with a small ache, corresponding with the sick tension in her throat. Eileen refrained from telling Henry this, though. It was awfully strange and uncomfortable, yes, but what harm could words do? In this world the rules were backwards, and it was clear to her (or so she perceived) that here the sword was mightier than the pen.

Following Henry more out of habit than of interest now, she waited as he picked up a simple, unlit bamboo torch from the corner alcove. On the candlestick next to it the words '_Holy Flame' _were inscribed. Henry examined the simple weapon. It wasn't dipped and oil and wouldn't stay on fire for long if he lit it now, but he looked as though he was going to keep it anyways. Eileen hardly blamed him. If she was in better condition she'd scavenge up everything she could find too.

The door behind them clicked. Eileen turned around and froze with a gasp caught in her throat. As Henry turned to see what she was staring at a gunshot rang out, chipping the brick just past the back of Henry's head. Flinching, Henry stared out, wide-eyed. For a moment he too froze, both of them deer staring in fear at the panther.

The man in the coat.

Walter Sullivan.

Things interlocked together in Henry's brain. The man's name, his purpose, and the gun that was pointed at their faces. His muscles thawing, he leaped forward and grabbed Eileen's bad arm. Giving a harsh tug that hurt more than he would ever mean it to, he bounded to the door, slamming it open and pulling themselves through just as another bullet missed and buried itself in the wall next to them. Eileen untwisted his arm from Henry's hand with a cry of pain as he shut the door with his body weight. Panting heavily they stared at each other.

"Oh _god_," Eileen whispered in terror.

The door handle shook and struggled to click. Henry pushed more weight to keep it shut in a final desperate act to keep Walter away from them. He looked to Eileen.

"Run."

That was all they needed. Henry pushed away from the door and stretched his legs into a run, using long strides to keep his feet over the rocks and roots of the forest floor. Eileen kept up well despite her injuries, running on the foremost pads of her feet to keep her heels as above the ground as possible. Limping furiously, she followed Henry through the shortcut under the trees, ignoring the path. Rotting dogs melted out of the shadows and ran alongside them, snarling and growling. Henry was thankful that their long tongues were at least not very prehensile. Every now and then they charged, but if he listened well to their roars of rage he could put on an extra burst of speed to dodge them.

Gunshots scuffed through the pine branches, raining debris down on them. Eileen shrieked and ducked her head as she ran. Henry did the same as he stumbled to the gate, glancing back fearfully to see Walter walking as calmly as ever towards them, a gun in one hand and a pipe in the other. Eileen approached him, wheezing painfully. He tore the gate door open and ushered her quickly into the next area. Closing it behind him, he took off running again, knowing that the simple gate and fence could not protect them from bullets.

Dogs furiously leaped at them as they ran. Adrenaline pumping through his body, Henry took each glancing blow as lightly as possible, not allowing the dogs to deter him. Eileen was not so graceful. She could not concentrate enough energy on avoiding the dogs and keeping up with Henry. Opting with the latter, she forced her legs to work past their endurance.

She was doing alright in keeping up until a dog crashed into her legs. Unable to scream, she fell to the ground. The wind left her and she coughed madly, her voice drowned out by even more gunshots. Pressing her face into the ground despite the dirt and dead leaves, she covered her head with her one good hand.

_Please Henry please see me oh god please come help me please please please_

Footsteps behind her. The dog's tongue traced over her back and she shivered, goosebumps dotting her skin. Flinching and whimpering as the tip of the dog's tongue punctured the meat of her shoulder, she cried into the dirt as she felt an acid from the dog's tongue liquify the muscles in her shoulder.

A sound _thump_ and the dog was kicked off and away from Eileen. Another gunshot and the dog lay dead. Relief surged through her, Henry had come back, he had come back and things were going to be alright.

A rough hand grabbed her by the neck and yanked her upwards. The relief drained from her body, leaving her cold and frigid. Knees buckled beneath her, she watched Henry's form through the trees disappear through the gate. Breathing deeply, she was about to scream to him when a steel knife pressed itself into the corner of her mouth. The man in the coat pulled back, poking the point of the knife into her mouth and stretching her cheek as far as it would go. Liquid trickled from the corner of her mouth, dripping down her chin. Whether it was from saliva or blood she knew not. The sliminess of his coat brushed against her back, cold and wet from recent blood. His breath, like a rotting corpse, caressed her ear in the most harmful way possible as he whispered lovingly.

"Mother."

Henry was gone from her sight. He left her. He left her. He left her.

The knife dug into her skin.

_He left her!_


	18. Chapter 18

_Yeah! A year hasn't passed since the last chapter now! Look at me, I'm on a roll here!_

_I feel really bad, but I was listening to a song called "Fireflies" at the end of this chapter. Aheheh._

_(I write better when I'm in a bad, it's-time-for-me-to-crawl-into-a-corner-now mood.)_

_Also I am now 17, and, you know. Forest world. 17/21. Oogabooga!  
_

* * *

**Chapter 18**

Henry crashed through the gate door, heart pounding only for his survival. He ran a few paces before slowing to a stop, bent over to rest his hands on his knees. Panting heavily, he gasped and gulped down saliva. His legs ached from running, and he wouldn't be surprised if he re-opened some closed wounds along the way. Still, it was a miracle that he was able to get away without getting shot. He didn't hear any sounds of pursuit either, he must've shaken him off. Finally catching his breath, he stood up straight to look at Eileen.

Eileen?

_Eileen!_

_He left her back there!_

Not only left, but he had _forgotten_ her completely! Did he even pause at the door to wait? Was he even thinking?

No, he was acting on instinct—instinct that had evolved to save himself. _And forget the others?_ He wished it wasn't true, he sincerely wished it wasn't true. But then, what of the four people that died in front of eyes, the ones he had failed to protect? He didn't forget them. Or did he?

Oh _god_.

Gripping the axe fiercely in the anger directed at himself, he did an abrupt about-face and ran into the area he just left.

He stumbled to a stop on the dirt path, focusing a glare of hatred conjured up by his subconscious on the man in the coat, Walter Sullivan. They stood there, perhaps ten paces apart. In front of him Walter held Eileen, one arm spanning her hips and the other holding a large knife to the inside of her cheek. He could see Eileen breathe, could hear her sharp, quiet little cries with each intake of air. She was panicking, and deep down Henry was too, but it didn't show. No. His brow was furrowed into a scowl, his deep breaths almost raging. More than anything he was angry at himself for being so selfish, so forgetful. And now...he didn't know what would happen. But he had to get Eileen back.

Henry raised the axe. Eileen squirmed in discomfort as the man calmly dug the blade of the knife deeper into the corner of her mouth.

"Now, now, Receiver...," Walter spoke in a voice that was sickeningly sweet—vinegar to the bleeding ear, "Your time will come."

Henry and Eileen's breaths were the only things to break the silent tension between them. Henry kept looking back and forth between Walter and Eileen's eyes. To Walter, an oath to harm him dearly, to Eileen, a plea for forgiveness. Walter gazed at him, an unhealthy smile in his eyes; in Eileen's, an infinite amount of building fear.

Walter increased the tension by twisting Eileen's hips to step back with him. Eileen struggled and whimpered past the steel in her mouth that had dug itself even deeper. Giving a small grunt of pain for her, Henry shuffled his feet just a half-step forward, the axe shifting in his hand, wanting to be used against the psychopath.

Walter saw this. Eyes flashing, he twisted the knife, tearing Eileen's lips open and scraping the inside of her cheek, threatening to rupture it with a simple flick of the wrist. Eileen cried in pain, shutting her one eye as thin, hot tears escaped. Releasing a tortured whimper, Henry shifted the balance of his feet nervously. He felt as though he were Pavlov's dog, slave to the master who was ringing the bell and withholding what he wanted.

"Henry...," Walter cajoled as though he was teaching a toddler an obvious lesson, "You're not a hero. Leave it be. You'll see her and Mother again eventually,"

The calmness of his voice was maddening. The friendly insanity of his smile never wavered, never twitched. Eileen squirmed desperately beneath him, and he twisted the knife in the opposite direction, widening her wound. Henry choked. All he needed was to swing the axe down on that filthy man's head, but he could not; not without hurting and possibly killing Eileen in the process. Against everything, against what he vowed to do, he let the axe fall from his hand. It fell to the ground with a heavy thud. He could hear Eileen's heart pound from fast to slow. She gave a low whimper and a sob, giving in and struggling to accept her fate. Walter's smile grew wider, and he backed up another step. Henry glared at him though there was nothing to back up his gaze.

Through one of her muffled sobs Eileen choked on the steel and began to cough to regain her breath. Walter's eyes turned from sweet to savage, and he kicked the back of her knees, causing her to crumble and lose all support she had for herself, relying on him to keep her upright. Pulling back the knife, Walter held her steady as he readied to plunge it into her throat.

Without thinking, without comprehending, without any presence in his mind whatsoever, Henry, in a fit of boiling rage that soared up to his head from his stomach to wash his vision in red, pulled the gun from his waist as he leaped forward. He pointed the barrel just hairs away from Walter's nose and fired.

Blood exploded from Walter, splattering Henry's face, hand, and gun and soaking Eileen's hair and shoulder. The gunshot rang in Eileen's ears, rendering her temporarily deaf on her left side and sending an annoying ringing that she could tell wouldn't go away for a while. Walter's corpse collapsed, the face just a mass of flesh, bone, and blood. Nothing recognizable about it survived. Eileen shivered as his dead hands fell away, and she almost fell from the sudden lack of support. Henry stopped her before her knees hit the ground, and, without lingering another moment around Walter's corpse, he ran back to the gate, holding Eileen's hand to ensure she was behind him. Retrieving the axe on the way, he ran through the gate before curious scavenging creatures appeared.

Eileen followed him, her cheek burning. She didn't care. She was simply glad that she could still feel it burning, rather than lying cold and without feeling on the forest floor.

And she had plenty of feeling right now.

The surrealist moment of being pulled from the edge of death had left her, and had left a deep-seated rage in its place. She didn't care what his excuse was, and she didn't care that he had gone back and succeeded in rescuing her. He had _left_ her without a second thought until it was almost too late. Did he realize that he now had more than one priority where saving lives was concerned? When he said he saw all those people getting killed, did he sit back and watch, not even attempting to help them live? Eileen turned to him, anger flaring in her eyes, ready to burst in his face.

She looked at his expression.

Everything faded away.

Henry was staring down into space. He saw nothing, heard nothing. His fingers were limp, the gun and axe falling from them to the ground. Watching in wonder, she stood off to the side as he shuffled slowly forward. Dazed and slouched in such a way that suggested immense shock and sorrow, he eased himself to sit on a smoking stair, something that had been part of a building before it had recently burned down. Still distant, he stared down at his hands. Eileen crept closer, cautious.

His hands were trembling.

"Henry...?"

She could tell that he barely heard her. The only indication was a loud, shaky breath he took as he drew his limbs in just a little closer to his core. Eileen studied him from afar, afraid that she would tread on his feet if she further asked him about anything.

It was no secret to anyone that Henry was shy and quiet. If there was one thing anybody could say about him it would be that—especially if they only knew him by passing courtesy. But this was different. He wasn't just deeply troubled about something, either—this was far, far greater than that. What was it about what had just happened that had made him shrink farther into his shell? Was it the fact that he had left her behind? Maybe, but from what Eileen saw previously he was more _angry_ about that than reclusive. Was it because of what Walter said about him, about not being a hero? Eileen didn't believe that would affect him either in this way. Henry never acted like a hero, and never pretended to be one even though he was trying to lead her out of here. He was simply being who he was, and it seemed to her that if he wasn't a hero he'd accept that—or anything similar of the sort.

No, it was something else, and Eileen only needed another brief moment of thought before her eye widened then softened. Of all the things he could've been depressed at, he chose perhaps the most modest one there was. Debating on whether or not to comfort him, she soon came to a somewhat stubborn answer. Limping forward, she slid onto the stair beside him, edging herself closer until their bodies touched. Pressing her bruised cheek to the back of his shoulder, she intertwined her fingers within his, ever so gently giving them a forgiving squeeze. Henry did not react, but she heard his heart beat just a little faster at her touch. Sighing deeply, she leaned into him, anything to let him know that she was there and alive and what he did was forgivable.

"Henry...," she said after a long time of listening to his heart and ragged breathing, "He's no different than the monsters."

Henry swallowed uneasily, "I know. But...,"

Eileen tightened her fingers around his. Compared to his rough, thick hands hers were the opposite—soft like his was before the nightmare, slender and delicate digits that fitted nicely between his.

"He was going to kill me."

Henry couldn't respond, continuing to gaze down. Marveling at differences between his hands and hers, he turned his wrist upwards to see his scarred and reddened palm. He was very surprised at the sudden contact—he was not expecting her to hug him like this unprovoked by danger. Watching as her thumb moved absentmindedly over the blisters on the side of his palm he forced himself to relax as much as he could. He shut his eyes and gulped down an involuntary soft cry.

"He's still going to kill you," he whispered, his voice fading away from the weight of the words. Eileen paused, and she raised her head to stare at him. He grimaced, knowing the expression on her face without looking. Somehow he knew this without having evidence, either by knowing the twisted rules of the Other World or just knowing because his presence still weighed heavily here and in Henry's conscience.

"He isn't dead," he continued, regretting every word he said, "Otherwise we'd be out of here...," Swallowing again, Henry turned his face away from Eileen. He was slightly afraid that he had frightened and pushed her away and that she'd retract from him, pretending that her compassion had never happened. It had happened to him before. He didn't scare women away, no. But they had slipped away from him, pretending that he no longer existed to them even as a friend. It was his reclusive personality that did it, he knew, but in all of his years he was never able to overcome his greatest social weakness. This was a different situation, but the fear of her slipping away was the same, even for something as simple as a hug of comfort—a hug that held no romantic status whatsoever.

Eileen's hand slid away from his, and he felt himself grow heavy. He hadn't meant to be so blunt, but there was no brighter way to say such things out loud.

To his surprise (again) she did not draw completely away. Resting her hand on the crook of his elbow and applying just a touch of pressure, she placed her forehead on his broad shoulder. Taking in a few shaky breaths just short of fearful tears, she gathered her composure before retreating from him completely. Henry stood up. Part of him was yearning for her to hold him again—her light touch sent goosebumps over his skin, a warm feeling of simple contact that he hadn't dreamed of since the third day of his confinement. It was that warm feeling that helped him shy away from her. He knew that he was the last thing Eileen wanted to see when she woke up in the hospital, and he knew that feelings for her would only make things more painful and difficult for him, no matter the ending to this nightmare.

Noticing a scrap of paper on the ground, Henry stepped off the burnt porch stairs to retrieve it. Realizing where he actually was for the first time, he glanced around at the rubble and debris smoking and smoldering around him. Instantly he thought of Jasper and the horrible smell of cooking flesh and hair.

"Could this be...Silent Hill woods?" Eileen asked as casually as possible. Henry picked up the paper and turned to look at her, "I'm pretty sure that somewhere in these woods there's an orphanage called 'Wish House'...," Eileen trailed off. Henry glanced behind her at the smoking rubble. Her complexion whitened when she realized how right she was.

"Oh god, on the news the other day...There was a burning, they thought it was an arson, this man, he...,"

Henry winced and read the sheet of singed notepaper to take his mind off of the fire that had happened here. What he read didn't help him much.

_Something's here but nothing's here._

_I feel something from the well._

_Something's missing..._

_Aahh!_

_It has begun!_

_Jasper_

"It wasn't an arson who burned himself, was it?" Eileen asked, her voice lowered as her expression grew more serious. Henry crumpled the paper in his hand and stuffed it in his pocket despite the urge to drop it on the ground. He didn't answer Eileen's question.

She stared at him. This was the same reaction she received when she asked about the murder scene. There were some connections she could make in the subway—the murder scene and the ghost wench were definitely related, she had no doubt about that. And Henry had some direct relation to the ghost, too. He knew her somehow in life—and as much as Eileen couldn't see Henry involved with someone in such a way, the only conclusion she could draw from their relationship was a sort of prostitution. It seemed to her, though, that Henry had cared about her more than what a simple prostitute could mean to someone.

Eileen chastised herself. She couldn't afford to act on her judgments now. It didn't matter what kind of relationship Henry held with the ghost wench—she was dead and it was all in the past, now. No matter what was going to happen she realized now, after her shuddering brush with death and Henry's sacrifice of the last bit of innocence he had in this world, that she would have to bring herself to trust him or perish.

So she was going to trust him.

"Henry," Eileen said gently, closing her eyes to help her speak, "You can tell me. I...I believe you." She didn't want to believe him because she knew that whatever he said would be another nail in the coffin of her sanity, but she had made her choice and she would not run from it. And she didn't want him to drive himself insane bottling all up inside, either.

"The man in the coat—Walter—burned him," Henry answered softly, "And the House went with him."

Eileen drew in a shaky breath, "And...you saw it happen."

Henry winced. He could still feel the heat of the flames and the stench of the flesh and hair. In his mind Jasper's eyes still boiled and popped, his tongue still blistered and charred as the fire slowly consumed him, peeling away layer upon layer of skin. Jasper's screams still resonated in his ears, the cries of insanity and pain as he fell to his knees in the final throes of his short life. Jasper had been a mild annoyance to Henry, but it made no difference to the impact and unfairness of his death.

"Yes," He confirmed so quietly Eileen didn't realize he was answering at first, "Until he died."

"And the murder in the subway...You saw her die too," Eileen said after a short moment of silence.

"Yes," Henry confirmed again, guilt creeping into his voice. To counter it, he kept his eyes off Eileen, using them to examine the ruins of the Wish House. Hardly anything was left of it, just a burnt wheelchair and a white candle for his protection. He stepped forward and took the candle from the exposed first floor of the building, pocketing it as he quietly elaborated, closer to her so he did not have to say the painful words louder, "She...she was stabbed in the back," He closed his eyes, willing himself to forget what it felt like to hold her dying body, "Many times...,"

Watching the composure of his actions, Eileen pressured him further even though she knew that this was quite painful for him to recall.

"You knew her?" She asked, though her voice suggested that she already knew it was true.

"Briefly," Henry blinked. He couldn't catch much undertone hints, but that one he picked up on, forcing him to wonder what she was getting at.

"How did you know her?"

"I first came to the subway from the hole. She was stuck there like me, she wanted me help her get—," Henry paused as his mind finally calculated the reason why Eileen was staring so steadily at him. His face flushed immediately into a bright red and sweat gathered on his palms and cheeks.

"N-no, not like _that_, I didn't—w-we never—I-it wasn't like that...!" he scrambled over his words, utterly flustered. Cynthia had hinted at a special favor, most likely something of that sort, but that never happened and Henry was quite sure from this standpoint that it wouldn't have happened even if they had made it out alive.

Eileen smiled. It wasn't wicked nor was it teasing. Though it was small, it was a genuine smile as she sat there, watching and listening to Henry stumble over himself in a subject that most men she had met (and dated) were much more casual about. She, herself, had never done anything close to what she had been implying when she asked about Henry and the woman from the subway, but that didn't make Henry's bashfulness any less amusing—especially when they were stuck in an environment as dismal as this one.

Henry had given up on trying to explain himself. He was starting to dread how the rest of the conversation would play out and what other questions she would ask when he noticed something odd about the burnt wheelchair. Forgetting the conversation in its entirety (partially on purpose) he approached the wheelchair, intrigued. On the seat of the chair sat the torso of a dismembered mannequin. Words were engraved in the chest. Climbing the porch steps and leaning down, he squinted at the soot-covered doll.

"What is it?" Eileen asked as she forced herself to stand up, stepping up to his side as he answered, thoughtful and stuck in concentration.

"Something's engraved...," He rubbed some of the soot away.

_Though my body be destroyed, I will not let you pass here. To prepare for the Receiver of Wisdom...I cut my body into five pieces and hid them in the darkness._

_When my body is once again whole, the path to below will be opened. If you are the Receiver of Wisdom, you will understand my words._

_The ritual has begun..._

Henry stepped back and stared at the torso. He didn't want to admit it, but he understood, and he understood everything. Something in his brain clicked when he read this, and he knew what to do and how to get it done.

He didn't like how he knew. Knowing connected him to whatever the 'Receiver of Wisdom' was. Something about that phrase poked him in his mind—he had been called that somewhere else, hadn't he? Or something had alluded to that along the way, he was sure of it.

Eileen looked at him for an answer as he continued to stare.

"I...I need oil," He stated, gesturing with the torch in his hand towards the vague direction of another hole. Eileen followed him to the wall.

"Are you sure he can't get me here?" she whispered in fear. Henry gave her a hurtfully sympathetic look, and could not answer. She squirmed.

"Are...you going to be okay?" he asked when she struggled to pull together any composure she could hold.

"I don't know," she answered truthfully. _I don't like it when you leave me._ God, she wanted to say those words out loud but she couldn't find the strength to say them lest she accidentally guilt him. Waiting until she seemed to have a good grip on herself, Henry gripped the edges of the hole to pull himself up into it.

"Henry," Eileen said before he disappeared, "What was her name?"

Henry gazed into the eternal darkness of the hole in front of him.

"Cynthia. She thought...that this was a dream."

Ducking his head down, he disappeared into the dark.

–

Henry stepped into the small hallway of his apartment's absolutely manic atmosphere as the clock ticked madly out of control. A faint headache greeted him as he approached it suspiciously. Grumbling incoherently, he dug out the Holy Candle from his pocket. Taking the book of matches, he lit the candle and placed it beneath the clock. Figuring that the matches were better with him than in the apartment, he pocketed them in place of the candle as the ticking slowed down to a stop, back to its previously deadened state. The hands froze once again at 10:06 once the candle was a puddle of drying wax on the carpet. He didn't even think twice about the cost of repairs it would take to clean it up.

Opening his trunk on an eerie premonition, he carefully took a Sword of Obedience from the very bottom. He supposed that it was only logical that ghosts of Walter's most recent victims would arise in all of the Other Worlds. As much as he hated to think of it, the possibility of it was terribly likely. The Saint Medallion dangled against his chest, cool and comforting. He did not deny that Joseph was lying to him that the Medallion would help protect him, but part of him knew that it would eventually amount to hardly anything in the end.

As he turned, torch and weapons juggled in hand, he spied another red slip underneath his door. Taking a short detour, he wriggled it free and read it.

_My theory is that Walter never died at the prison. It may have been someone else who committed suicide. Either that, or the person the police arrested was not the real Walter Sullivan. I'm in no position to investigate what really happened at the prison, but in any case, Walter didn't die at the prison. The man with the coat that showed up here was the real Walter. 7 years ago, he did something in that apartment. I'm certain there's a link between that and the bizarre things that have been happening here. Just a little bit more and I'll have this whole thing figured out. I may even find that the real Walter is somewhere nearby..._

_July 18_

The letter confirmed what Henry had guessed to be true. Walter Sullivan was still alive and killing, and he was going to kill them. Henry stashed the letter away.

He was going to kill them.

It didn't even feel like a matter of survival anymore. How could it be? Eileen was horribly injured and couldn't keep up with Henry, and Henry himself couldn't run for long. He dipped the head of the torch in the gasoline in the front closet. The torch would surely be lit for a long time now, it had plenty of fuel.

Henry could barely believe it, but he was increasingly jealous of the inanimate object.

–

When Henry returned Eileen was not in his immediate sight as usual. Chest tightening with panic, he called out softly to the rubble of the Wish House. To his relief Eileen appeared in his peripheral vision.

"I dropped the riding crop," she explained, "But I found this...," Holding up a short, steel chain, it clinked slightly with her unsteady stance. Though he still looked somewhat worried, he forced a small nod.

"He didn't come," Eileen stated upon seeing the traces of worry in his face. (Seeing his expressions and emotions was no small feat, but she was quickly becoming used to it. She was talented at those sorts of things.) This relieved Henry's tension somewhat as she gestured to the Sword, "Why do you have that?"

He glanced down to where he struggled to balance everything in his hands, torch in one, axe and Sword in the other. Giving an honest shrug, he mumbled something low about the victim that burned in the Wish House. Eileen was about to say something about having not seen that particular victim's ghost yet, but she shut her mouth before she asked the question. Something told her that a question like that would be something she would soon regret.

Straining the mental map in his head, Henry walked to the southeast door of the square enclosure. There was no real reason why he chose this specific direction, other than remembering that it was fairly short. He had no immediate goals in mind; he _did_ have an idea of what he should be finding (that is to say, burnt mannequin limbs) but how and where he did not know. Leading Eileen, and making damn sure he didn't forget or lose track of her this time, he opened the door surrounded by childish graffiti and stepped inside.

The forest was almost chillingly silent, the only things breaking the peaceful atmosphere being the dense fog and the bloody bandages wrapped around the trunks of the pine trees littering the uphill path to the next gate. Eileen eyed the trees suspiciously, as if they could jump to life to harm them. Neither of them would be wholly surprised.

A fluttering moth circled Henry's head as he opened the gate. Sneezing from the dust that flitted off of the moth's wings, he lazily waved the unlit torch around, opting to ward the bat-like creature off rather than take the time to kill it. The faint flapping of the moth's wings filled his ears like an abnormally large mosquito, the annoyance of the noise distracting him until the buzz of the wings became the buzz of a machine.

Sucking his stomach in as a last moment defense, Henry felt the teeth of a moving saw tear at the threads of his shirt, tugging at his belly until the threads severed. The gate clanged as Eileen fell back on it for support, the force of her fall cutting her scream short. The moth flapped out of Henry's vision, allowing his eyes to meet Walter's. No scars or blemishes marred his face, there was no trace of when Henry had shot him at point-blank. Henry had expected his expression to be full of insane rage, incomprehensible anger that thirsted for revenge. But no.

Walter looked as if he was watching his child take its first steps. Just a slight smile conveying a sort of hidden glee and gleaming eyes that urged the child forward. The chainsaw in his hands swung through, faint blue threads from Henry's shirt trailing along with it until they disappeared into the chewing engine as the hungry teeth rotated around the blade.

Henry fell back against the gate alongside Eileen as Walter swung the chainsaw in a wide arc in front of him again. Sweat dotted his face as he breathed maniacally, the whirring of the engine trumping the soft buzz of the moth, the annoying creature's sound now a sweet release compared to the grinding churn of the saw. The many items in Henry's hands cluttered together in dismay as his heart pounded a prayer for his life.

_He could not fight this._

But he had a chance.

Henry shoved the torch into Eileen's weak arms. Eileen sputtered, watching in shock and fear as he leaped forward, timing his jump so that Walter's arm was across his chest, the chainsaw to his far side. Crashing clumsily into the psychopath, Henry screamed.

"Run, Eileen! Run, run, _run!_"

Stumbling forward with a loping limp, she did as she was told, scuffing her feet in the dirt and dead pine needles in her haste to get away, the torch in her hand with the chain wrapped messily about her forearm. Henry kept his injured body pasted to Walter despite the pain, struggling to buy her as much time as he could. Willing her to flee as fast as she could to the next area, Henry shut his eyes as the moth clipped perilously at his hair and shoulders.

Tightening the muscles in his arms, Walter shoved Henry's body back into the gate with another swing of the chainsaw. The teeth caught Henry by the ear and jaw, ripping his skin in a long cut running from his outer ear across his lobe, curving down and away at the edge of his jaw and nicking his adam's apple.

Henry thanked God that the chainsaw miraculously didn't tear at his throat.

Without waiting for the stinging pain to subside or for clear eyesight to return, Henry bolted forward at an angle, ducking his head low in a weak attempt to avoid the chainsaw. The moth followed him as he fled. Running too close to Walter, Henry cringed as he raised the chainsaw over his head. Without ceasing to move his legs, Henry slammed his eyes shut and gave a silent plea for it to be short and painless.

Walter howled in frustration as the moth, not being that entirely bright, head-butted his cheek. A rush of life flooded Henry's limbs as the chainsaw never came down on his spine, and his legs found a short burst of energy that propelled him forward. Hearing the moth scream as Walter tore it away and slammed it into a nearby tree trunk, Henry's heart fluttered with hope as he reached for the gate, somehow able to hear Walter's footsteps over the growling of the chainsaw. Tumbling through the gate, he was met with Eileen's wide green eye.

"Henry!"

He grabbed her wrist and didn't slow down.

Weaving in between the trees as there was no path to guide them, Henry aimed for the door in the fence that separated the dead end and the rest of the forest. Eileen stumbled over her high heels to keep up, screaming in agony and surprise as her foot got caught on an obstacle on the ground. She fell, her fall only broken by the fact that Henry tightened on her wrist as he felt her body begin to tumble away. Dropping the torch, she gave a low cry as she tried to wrench her foot free. Twisting her body as Henry let her wrist go and knelt down beside her, she glanced back to see what had caught her foot.

Pale, knobby hands reaching up from the base of the tree gripped her ankle, fingers digging slivers into her skin. Her cries clambered into shrieks and she doubled her efforts, kicking her feet and wriggling her body frantically forward, her head brushing against Henry's stomach.

"_Eileen! _Eileen, Eileen, it's just a root! It's just a tree root!" Henry cried as he reached his hands forward, struggling to free her and calm her at the same time. Eileen's arm came around to grasp the loose fabric about his waist, her nails poking into his soft skin. Henry grasped her calf, holding it firm until she stopped desperately kicking out. Tugging ever so slightly, he heard the dry root crack as he pulled her ankle free, dust from the roots falling about her skin. Feeling her foot become free, Eileen squirmed forward, pushing her face to be buried in Henry's tummy. Falling back onto his seat, Henry felt the adrenaline that had replaced his blood simmer down as Eileen clawed at his back, crying into his shirt. He stared at the gate, muscled tensed. Every part of him expected Walter to walk through at any moment. When he didn't, he relaxed. Only then did he fully register that Eileen was still crying into his bruised belly, agitating his stomach and drawing attention to the frayed ends of the threads of his shirt that had been torn away by the chainsaw.

Henry stared at the back of her head as she cried. Color began to creep into his cheeks, exasperating the awkwardness of the situation. He tried to think hard about all the fiction he had read and seen, drawing back on the scenes where the hero comforted the obligatory sobbing female lead. What exactly had the hero done to calm her?

More often than not he slept with her—that was Hollywood's way of dealing with tender situations. That wouldn't help here.

Henry gulped.

Ever so tentatively, he raised his arm up, placing it gently about the stiff muscle in Eileen's arm, thumb bridging the valley between her upper and lower arm. She twitched, but didn't shy away from his touch. Shifting, she tugged on the back of his shirt to gain support as she slowly lifted her head up. Heart pounding with an emotion so very different than the familiar fear as her nose and lips barely touched the air between the buttons of his shirt and her skin, Henry scooted back to allow her some space. Pressing against her arm, he helped her find her center of balance again as she sat up.

"Ohh...," Eileen murmured softly as she drew her hand away to tenderly caress her temples, "My head hurts a little...," She trailed off. Henry had to strain a bit to hear her—partially because his ears were ringing with the growl of the chainsaw, and partially because she was speaking even softer than he normally did. Staring off into the dirt without purpose, Eileen looked up to Henry. He froze for a short moment, fighting back the urge to gulp again as she quietly gazed at him. Her eyebrow curved upwards in worry.

"Henry, you're bleeding...!"

He brought his hand up to his ear, tracing where he had lost most feeling. Rubbing his fingers uneasily together, he stared at the thick liquid that filled his fingerprints.

"Well...," She mentioned soon after, "I mean, you're bleeding from somewhere new."

Henry wanted to smile at that, but he couldn't, whether by force of the Other World or by his horrible shyness. Eileen looked like she wanted to say something more, but her mouth twisted shut as he stood up, picking up the torch from the ground to balance out his hands. He counted himself lucky that not only had he survived, but he had managed to not drop either the axe or the Sword in the process. It was mostly due to the fact that his knuckles were white the entire time as he gripped them for dear life.

Using the tree with the demented roots to help her stand, Eileen followed Henry passed the fence. A wall of concrete stopped them, lit by a brazier that seemed to burn endlessly without fuel. Shaking as much debris as he could from the end of the torch, Henry lit the oil. After a short survey of the area, he approached a well, peering down it. Eileen limped up beside him as he lowered the torch into the depths of the well. It was obvious that it was no longer in operation—it was dry and full of garbage, dirt, various nuts, some animal corpses, and dung. On top of the careless pile of litter was a person's leg. She inhaled sharply. It was charred to a crisp, so any details were hard to make out, but it was definitely a leg. Henry blinked, and looked to her, handing off the torch wordlessly. She grasped it, holding it just above the lip of the well as Henry bent over.

Even with his long frame he couldn't reach the limb, to no surprise. Using the curved head of the axe, he carefully chased the limb around until he pressed against the stone wall. Reaching down, his hips teetered on the edge of the well to Eileen's watchful eye as he gripped the ball of the foot. Pushing himself up and away from the depths of the well, Henry dragged the limb out. Once in the brighter light it was easy to see that it was not a human's leg, just a simple mannequin's left thigh and shin. Despite how relieving this should've been, Eileen didn't feel any better.

It was obvious that the left leg was the only thing they needed from this area, and they would soon have to head back to the enclosed space where Walter wielded his chainsaw. Eileen stared at Henry, silently pleading a moment of procrastination and rest. Henry didn't need the extra persuasion. They lingered there at the dead end for a while, neither one speaking and dreading what was up ahead.

Red letters caught Eileen's eye, carved and painted into two stones near the gate. Henry followed her gaze to the diary before she could innocently tear her eyes away, and thus she was obligated to let the unfamiliar language rake at her tongue again as she read aloud.

"_October 14. I did a good job reading today. I was so happy. But the 21 Sacraments for the Descent of the Holy mother was hard._

"_October 16. Some important people came today. One of them, Dah..._It's cut off...I can't read anymore."

On top of that, the slight headache she felt before seemed to grow in her mind as she read the words. Pulling her eyes away from the letters, she tried her best to focus on anything else but that.

"I...," She said softly. She was going to tell Henry that reading the diary made her feel weird and unnatural, but she decided against it at the last second, for reasons she had figured out but had forgotten the next moment. Without even murmuring a small 'nevermind' to signify that she had nothing more to say, she simply cut herself off and didn't speak again.

Shifting the left leg and the Sword to one arm, axe held firmly in the other while Eileen carried the torch and her chain, Henry counted down softly at the gate, knowing that Walter was somewhere in the fog and trees just beyond their vision, waiting for them. Eileen prepared herself to run, taking off as soon as Henry violently pushed open the gate.

Walter stepped out from behind a tree. Henry's eyes flashed at him, and swung the axe weakly at him to deter any further movement. The back of the axe's head crushed his fingers against the handle of the chainsaw. Seemingly unaffected by the pain even though the chainsaw fell from his hand, Walter sniffed and charged at Henry. Ducking away, Henry just barely dodged him as he followed Eileen back into the relative refuge of the Wish House courtyard.

Panting despite the lack of any further injury, Henry and Eileen stepped away from the door as if it was tainted with the plague. Eileen waited as Henry climbed up to the wheelchair, attaching the left leg to the torso. It fit perfectly. He returned to Eileen, noticing that the torch had blown out during their mad run for the gate. He offered an empty hand to take it, but Eileen shook her head gently, stating that she could hold it without issue. Declaring as well that they could keep going without rest, she followed Henry as he chose the other door on the eastern wall, entering it softly so as to not agitate any monster (or human) on the other side.

Once again the forest was quiet, hushed and laden with anticipation as they tread lightly over the cracked dirt path. Not even a single moth appeared to annoy them and break the uneasy monotony.

Then, out from the concealed trees, a voice whispered out to them.

"_Receiver..._,"

Henry's eyes widened and he raised the axe just in time to see a loping figure dressed in oily feathers and rags part the fog as it bounded forward. The twin-faced monster's pasty white hand swiped out, catching Henry in the shoulder and sending him cartwheeling to the side. As soon as its hand touched back on the mossy ground it ran back into the fog. Henry heard the clinking of Eileen's chain as she limped forward. As he struggled to stand, he heard the chain whip through the air and the twin-faced monster grunt in pain as Eileen attacked it mercilessly, having found it in the fog hiding behind a growing maple tree. Henry ran forward as the twin monster, unable to run away in time from Eileen's relentless beating, fell to the ground with a throaty cry. Bringing his foot up, he smashed the heel of his shoe into the backs of the monster's skull. The angry determination in Eileen's eyes at once shifted to a sort of surprise as she watched his foot crunch down on their hooded skulls.

"That was...they were...they—,"

"What?" Henry asked, confused. Eileen shook her head to rid herself of an unpleasant vision.

"Nevermind."

Henry let it go, but he didn't allow himself to forget what she had said at that moment. Even moreso, he couldn't forget that the Other Worlds seemed to be morphing together—first there were gorillas in the subway that didn't belong there, and now there were twin faced monsters in the forest instead of roaming the circular water prison. Henry took this as a very bad sign as he led Eileen through the next area and around the bloody trap in the middle of the pathway.

Opening the black iron gate, he entered the area crested with a great rock dotted with many crystal geodes, candles glowing about it. Eileen stared at it in both wonder and confusion, taken aback by the sheer size and oddness of it. Nahkeehona had not changed much since he last saw it, and it still had the power to give him goosebumps on his arms and back. Flames flickered on its surface, giving the geodes a grisly sheen. It wasn't until Eileen spoke uneasily that he realized that the flames weren't natural and were far too bright to be emitted from candles.

"Uh...Henry...that—," she whispered, her voice shaking.

Henry saw it.

A great torch in the air, unnatural red fire soaring from its fuel as the fuel itself soared above the ground. The horrible stench of burning flesh and hair aerated his nostrils as he stood there, staring up in shock at the mockery of the sun. The fuel to the flames floated closer, allowing for features to be made out. Charred to a black and encasing coals underneath its skin, it stared with eyes that glowed a bloodshot, rageful color. In its hand was a candlestick that was borderline molten, and as it swung it back and forth the numbers on its chest burned bright as it choked and gurgled, its makeshift saliva boiling from the heat of the flames that had consumed Jasper Gein.

_17/21_.


	19. Chapter 19

_I was going to make this chapter longer, but I cut it after a fair amount of writing for sake of "too many subplots in one chapter" and general "I really want to get this posted damn it"-ness._

_There are two places I'd like to direct you to: One, to the first two chapters of this story. I edited and reposted them so they're all new and shiny. They are the final edits, and because of the changes a lot of the story from chapters 3-15ish will maybe seem a tad bit off. Two, if you'd like, check out the link to my livejournal in my profile. Updates, including edited chapters, will be posted there, as well as many artworks having to do with the chapters. While no sketches for this chapter are finished yet (not enough time in my hands to complete anything) there will be some for the future for this in general. Also, I post little snippets of upcoming chapters when I feel the need to, and you can edit/comment on them as they come and go._

_Small apologies for the time it took to write this chapter - this was another victim of "Erase the entire thing and start over you twat" so you know, more time. Better results?_

_

* * *

_**Chapter 19**

The Saint Medallion hummed an urgent buzz against Henry's chest as the floating pyre twisted closer to them. Eileen set the torch firmly into the ground and unwrapped the chain from around her arm, struggling to judge the distance from the ghost to where they were. She hadn't previously realized how much the subtle difference of sight was hindering her, but the moment she realized that she didn't know when to expect to finally feel the heat of the ghost's flames was the moment she shuddered and stepped backwards as Henry stepped forwards. Axe in one hand, Sword in the other, Henry's heart pounded as Jasper's ghost gurgled and sputtered, limbs crackling with each miniscule twitch of the finger.

Henry sucked in a breath, hoping to make this quick.

Searing hot fire licked at him, and though the Medallion protected him from any mental damage he could feel the skin on his knuckles peel back and become painfully raw as he swung the axe at the ghost. The thick blade easily smashed into the corporeal body, and the ghost emitted rather unsettling, watery grunts with each hit. As if he was mining into the side of a volcano, the ghost's charred flesh flaked off, revealing molten rosy color underneath that soon puffed and crisped to black again. Eileen gagged, reminded of some sort of horrific marshmallow as she watched the ghost's skin boil and burn. Hiding her face in her shoulder, she coughed and struggled to keep bile down her throat.

Jasper's protective coat of red flames diminished with each strike of the axe. Dropping the Sword to better fight the ghost, Henry pushed as much force into his muscles as was possible, emboldened by the ghost's weakening fire. Ignoring the scalds on his fingers and hands, he viciously hacked at the ghost, driving it until its back was only breaths away from the face of Nahkeehona. The sleeves of his shirt felt hot against his skin, the fabric absorbing the heat to combat the dampness of the forest around them. He could barely hear Eileen's footsteps crunch on the dead pine needles behind him over the constant roars and gurgling of the fiery ghost. He did not think much of it other than that he was glad that she was keeping her distance. Eileen watched in silent, alert awe as the edges of Henry's image shimmered in the radiated heat though he was seemingly undeterred.

The licks of red fire had died down to a small smattering of candles burning through the cracks in the ghost's skin. Henry could feel through the blade of the axe that the ghost was soon to fall. His heart rate quickened in gleeful anticipation. _Soon the ghost will be down and then he would take the Sword and impale it and they wouldn't have to worry about it ever again and the Sword_ the Sword! He wasn't holding the Sword anymore! Faltering for just a moment, Henry gave a frantic glance to the soft ground, praying for the Sword to be at his feet.

Jasper's wretched hand twisted outwards and grasped Henry's arm. Within an instant, his left sleeve rose up in unholy, reddish flames. He screeched and pulled away, stumbling backwards as the evil fire gained life again as a burning smile carved itself into the ghost's cheeks. Collapsing, Henry began to flail frantically, rubbing his arm into the dirt. The pain was unbearable—though he knew that his shirt wasn't yet in tatters he could feel his skin sizzle and warp under the command of the impossible heat. The hairs on his arm smoldered away, his pale complexion reddened and split into blood and pus. Eating at him until the damp dirt finally extinguished it, the possessed fire lapped at his flesh, a burning poison that was starving for his vulnerable bloodstream. He knew its embodiment was unnatural, but for some reason he knew that the pain was as natural as sticking his arm straight into a campfire. To think. Jasper had felt like that. Except, for him, it was everywhere. Between his fingers, down the small of his back, underneath his ears, between his cheeks, behind his knees, spreading over his buttocks and into the niches of his groin. The burning pain is what Jasper was for the last moments of his awkward life. Henry gasped as though he had surfaced from the depths of the ocean once the horrid flame had been extinguished.

_If only there had been an ocean there to save Jasper's life..._

Eileen screamed in exertion as she whipped the fiery ghost, struggling to keep it away from Henry. Her eyes were shut against the immense heat, salty tears creeping out of the corners. Henry could waste no time, for Jasper would surely soon overcome her. Grinding his teeth together and trying to wrench himself away from the pain, he twisted his body and crawled to where the Sword of Obedience rested amongst the scattered pine needles. Grasping the triangular handle with his good arm, he stood up and brought the Sword above his shoulders. Jasper's flame, though not at full strength, cast a gruesome, bloody shadow on the marred surface of Nahkeehona. Silhouetted against the ghost, Eileen breathed hard, backing away in fear though she still whipped the chain back and forth in front of her to ward the ghost off. Gripping the handle tightly, the Medallion hummed to the tune of the Sword, and the tip began to glow with a faint holy light.

"Get down, Eileen!"

She obliged, tumbling to the soft forest floor. Henry swung the Sword, the polished blade bursting into an inferno of yellow fire. Jasper's ghost shrieked in terror, and as Henry plunged the Sword into Jasper's chest the red flames succumbed to the yellow. Sliding easily into the ghost's body, the Sword impaled it to the rock face of Nahkeehona, wrenching the fire from its body and leaving it a charred mess of coals pinned to the sparkling geodes woven into the rock's great skin. Glowing with a low pulse, the Sword's raging flames fell quiet, its duty fulfilled.

Henry let go of the handle and stepped backwards to gaze at Jasper's writhing form. Eileen stood up beside him, brushing dust, and questionable debris off of her dress and thighs. Plucking a pair of pine needles from her cleavage while Henry's eyes were still turned away, Eileen turned her gaze to the stone monolith before them, marveling silently.

"I don't like it," she muttered finally, "It's too...haunting." She had studied cultures enough to figure that this stone, at one point or another, must've been a shrine to any local native tribes. Whether they thought it was holy or demonic was another story. Judging by the almost childish fear that was taking her by the back of the head, she wanted to believe that they would never see this thing as anything else but cursed.

Henry turned away, doing his best to ignore the ghost's constant sputtering and writhing. Finding a lone brazier pushed off to the side of the path, Henry revived the torch and passed it off to Eileen. Wordlessly, with the urge to keep moving forward, he passed Nahkeehona, desperately trying to forget.

"What was his name?" Eileen asked as Henry opened the gate.

"Jasper."

Taking care of the few moths on the sloped landscape, Henry continued at a brisk walk, never noticing that Eileen had set the torch into the ground until she grabbed his shoulder.

"Henry, wait. Stop."

Giving her a mild stare, he tried to pull away. Eileen furrowed her brow, let him go for one second, and grasped his left forearm. Henry cried out and wrenched his arm away, trying to keep his feet under him as pain snaked up his arm. Releasing him gently, she tried her best to ignore the ash and pus on her palm as she stared at him expectantly. Massaging his arm, Henry winced and glanced at her pitifully through squinted eyes. Her face softened to an apology.

"You're hurt. Shouldn't we rest for a bit?"

He glanced down to his arm. The lower half of the sleeve was marbled with ash and blackened fabric, and as he tenderly ran his fingers over he could feel the pus and raw flesh beneath, prickling with pain. She wasn't wrong. He needed help, even if the only help he could get was cold water.

"I don't have anything with me," he confessed, biting his lip to dull the pain, "There isn't a hole around here either." Eileen twisted her mouth in worry as she picked the torch up again.

"Where is there another hole?"

Henry shook his head lightly. He didn't remember.

Eileen followed him, keeping her eyes away from the bright headlights of a running car. She did not like his answer. There wasn't much she could do about it but strain her patience and try to turn her gaze away from his damaged arm. The tip of her nose was pink and peeled, remnants of the fiery ghost. It hurt to breathe deeply in more ways than one now, causing pain from her nostrils to her bruised ribcage. It was far too easy for her to multiply the pain to extent that Henry had been burned, and she knew that he was only pushing it away for the sake of immediate survival. She gave an uneven sigh as Henry opened the following gate.

Abandoned and abused walls introduced them to several conspicuous industrial buildings. Keeping Eileen close as the moans of ghosts echoed between the concrete walls, Henry ushered her into the closest building, leading her through the twisting levels. Eileen retched at the sight of a giant, pulsating worm that wove its way through the concrete and metal, undulating and shivering. Feeling disgusted, as though she had been forced to see something private she never wanted to see, she stumbled behind Henry as he pushed open doors just enough to allow them to pass through.

Wearily trudging up the long path, they saw steep ravines to either side of them, cradling fog between the pine trees and dead brush. Opening the last gate, Henry and Eileen froze in its doorway as, just before the ravine cut off the road, a fleshy gorilla padded to and fro aimlessly, hooting and grunting to itself. Motioning for Eileen to stay where she was, Henry raised the axe and approached the gorilla cautiously as it paced back and forth. At one edge of the ravine, the gorilla paused, and looked up with its eyeless face, suddenly aware of Henry's presence. Before it could react, Henry swung the axe hard. Screeching and howling in surprise, the gorilla tumbled backwards and off the edge of the ravine, breaking branches as it smashed into trees. Its final howls echoed forlornly into the dark gray skies as it disappeared into the enveloping fog. Henry didn't hear it hit the ground.

Looking around, he vaguely recognized the outstretched cliff as the place he first appeared in this particular world. A sole, white candle marked where he had arrived, waiting for him to pick it up and put it in his pocket. Eileen, holding the torch, limped up to a well off to the side.

"There's a limb in here too," she announced, straining her eyesight. Similarly to before, Henry bent down and, using the axe as a tool, fished the limb up. Gingerly removing the garbage and dampened soil from the doll's right arm, Henry nodded to Eileen in small thanks.

Spotting two boulders with red writing on it as they were exiting, Henry stepped to the side to allow Eileen to read them. Trying to hide her distaste, she took in a deep breath and read.

"_October 4. My cheek hurts. I hate him._

"_October 5. I got hit again. I didn't do anything wrong. I wish he was dead."_

She shuddered and shut her eyes, "Let's go. Please."

Henry gulped in agreement, and upon seeing the ill expression on her face had the strong urge to reassuringly take her arm. His hand twitched and rose ever so slightly, but quickly dropped. She didn't want to be held. She wanted to leave. The mention of this child's abuse brought her back to her own trauma, and any physical contact would be unwanted and uncalled for.

"I studied archeology back in college, but I...," she muttered, mostly to him. Trailing off, she indicated that she had no clue what sort of runes these were, and, hopefully, she presented that she greatly desired to never read another entry again especially after those. Henry couldn't turn around. There was nothing he could say. Nothing. Nothing of interest or sympathy, absolutely nothing that he could think of. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened the gate.

Huddling against the iron bars of the gate, they stared in terror. What was once just a long, lonely sloping path from the edge of the ravine to the industrial building was suddenly littered with a dozen loping gorillas, hooting, tromping, and chasing each other oblivious to the pair of intruders. Henry gripped Eileen's hand as tightly as he could with his marred and burnt fingers, giving her a quick glance. She was silently pleading to him.

_I don't want to run again_.

Henry ran out at an angle, keeping a keen eye on the many heads of the gorillas that popped up at the sign of their presence. A flimsy fence stood between them and a majority of the gorillas, and although it wasn't the best deterrent, it was, at least, something. The weak wood of the fence split and crushed under the gorilla's pounding feet. Stampeding over each other in a uncoordinated fashion, the gorillas tripped over each other like buffoons, allowing Henry and Eileen to reach the door safely before any of them could right its balance enough to attack. Racing back through the soiled industrial building, Henry felt the Medallion grow hot as it buzzed madly in its final throes of use. He'd have to make a mental note to replace it when he got the chance.

They passed by Jasper as respectfully as they could. He looked much more pitiful rather than menacing, bathed in the soft light of the many candles about him. Pausing for a moment as a glint of light caught his eye, Henry stooped down and picked up a single silver bullet. It wasn't far from Jasper's dangling feet, as though he had spit it out similar to how Cynthia had soon after she was impaled. He glanced up to see Jasper's bloodshot eyes staring at him. The irises retained their color though the soul was still clearly tormented and scarred. Feeling a slight twinge of guilt, Henry gave the ghost a silent, small thank you before pocketing the bullet and leaving the area behind him forever.

The torch's flame was weakening as they passed the trapped area. Using the last of it to retrieve the doll's left arm from another well, Eileen blew it out before it died, mostly to conserve whatever gasoline still lingered on the fine cloth. Descending the rest of the slope down to the Wish House courtyard, Henry paused to attach the arms to the burnt mannequin before continuing onwards without resting despite Eileen's weak protests for his health. His own arm hurt, but he could trudge stubbornly forward for a while longer if he needed to. Opening the door, he led her in the direction of misty Toluca Lake.

Two ceramic-faced beasts charged them the moment the door clicked shut behind them. Acting quickly to get rid of the threat as soon as possible, Henry swung the axe in a short arc, striking the closest creature in one of its faces, clipping Eileen with the head of the axe in the process.

"_Ahhagh! Ahh_, Henry, _ouch!_"

Faltering in shock and fear, Henry looked over, eyes wide. Eileen clutched her arm in pained despair. Muttering shrill curses, she doubled over herself in meek protection. Before Henry could collapse in apologies, the second creature leaped and barreled into them. Crushed underneath the surprising weight, they would've yelled had they the breath to. Struggling and squirming underneath the creature, Henry desperately tried to reach the gun at his waist, straining and stretching his body in hurtful ways. Fingers closing about the handle, he wriggled it free from the waistband of his pants and poked the barrel into the abomination's chest before firing off a few shots. Trapped between the creature's dead body and the outer wall of the Wish House enclosure, Henry squeezed his body in between the two obstacles to escape. Eileen was screaming and crying, half of her body still covered by the dead monster. Standing up in the thin amount of space he had, Henry pointed the gun at the wounded monster, and pulled the trigger until it too lied dead on the ground in a pool of its own blood.

Eileen cried harder.

Dropping to his knees, Henry's feet slid on the damp ground as he pushed the rest of the carcass off of Eileen, rolling it over. Ignoring the pain in his arm, he hovered worriedly over Eileen. He was concerned until the moment her cries started to form words. It was then that confusion colored his worry.

"They're _kids! Jesus Christ, Henry, _they're _children!_ You _murdered_ them! They were only _kids!_"

"Wh-what? What are you talking about?"

Eileen writhed away from him as she sobbed, the action twisting a knife in Henry's chest. What had he done wrong?

He tried to speak to her, but her cries and sobs always overpowered his soft voice. Frustration built up in his head, and part of him wanted to slap her soundly across the face. She wasn't listening to him. She wasn't listening to reason. What the hell kind of kids was she talking about anyways? All Henry saw were abominations dropped here from the abyss. If she could just _shut up_ for one damned second, then he'd explain to her how stupid she was being.

His hands closed around her shoulders.

"_EILEEN!_"

She jolted as if waking from a vivid dream. Gurgling and almost choking on saliva, she swallowed and coughed before opening her one good eye widely.

"I...," she panted, "I'm sorry, I...My head just started hurting, and I just...," Henry helped her to sit up. He was still actually rather angry, but the harsh feeling was fading fast as Eileen regained herself and calmed down. She was searching her mind for an explanation, but Henry was making it clear that he didn't particularly want one. His hands left her shoulders, and his expression returned to a neutral, distant worry; an expression that was becoming familiar and even welcome to Eileen. She even, for the first time, allowed him to help her stand up.

Henry noticed the beginnings of a fresh bruise on her arm, and suddenly remembered everything. Stammering in embarrassment, he clumsily pocketed the gun after he flicked the safety back on.

"Eileen, your arm, I didn't mean to, ah, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry, I—,"

Massaging the spot where he had hit her, Eileen gazed off, only a hint of resentment in her eyes.

"It's alright, Henry, you didn't mean to."

He winced. He could tell that half of her still blamed him despite his sputtered apology. Avoiding any eye contact, he dropped down and slid the axe out from underneath the corpses. What had he _done, _what had he _done? _Would she forgive him for this? Her voice was along the lines of forgiveness, but deep down, had she _really_ forgiven him?

He wouldn't be able forgive himself.

"They're...," Eileen whispered hoarsely, "They're monsters...," Giving her a very odd look, Henry waited for her to elaborate. Shaking her head, Eileen struggled to correctly recall the gruesome images she believed she saw.

"They were children...I saw children and they were mutilated...," She pressed a few fingers to her forehead, "I think...by an axe?"

Confused, she stared at Henry in fright. He offered no consolidation nor any suggestions, merely standing there and listening to her speak. He was curious, yes, but curiosity in this world was rewarded with either violence or insanity. Dropping his gaze away from her, still shamed that he had done actual harm to him, he led her to the gate that opened up into a small cave. Recognizing the rusty pipes and scattered mining equipment, he turned his eyes to the ceiling.

No moth-bats hung downwards. Nothing but the echoes of passing wind invited them inside. They walked, a small sense of calm returning to them. In the corner of his eye Henry saw an abandoned pickaxe lying against the dirt wall. He considered picking it up, ut it looked almost too heavy for him to properly handle. Besides that, it had a strange aura about it, as if it was cursed. The more he looked at it the more the curse seemed to pass on to him; willing for him to pick it up and yet pushing him away from the danger at the same time. Tearing his gaze away, he let the pickaxe be.

Toluca Lake greeted them at the other end of the cave. Henry felt some of the tension leave Eileen upon seeing the lake, though it did not leave for long. Breathing sharply through her teeth, she directed Henry's attention to the left.

"That's him, that's the kid who—!" she whispered in surprise. The waverer of a little boy, dressed in his hand-me-down clothes with baby fat clinging to his cheeks, the one who had interfered with the attack on Eileen ducked behind the small stone pedestal, crouched in fear. Henry took in a breath and approached him as openly as possible. He had his suspicions for the mystery of this boy, and he wanted answers.

"Are you...Walter Sullivan?" he asked gently, kneeling down to his level as best he could. The boy stepped backwards, making sure to keep the pedestal between them at all costs. They circled each other almost nonchalantly, though they never broke eye contact.

"That's what everyone calls me, but...I don't really have a name," the boy murmured softly.

Henry's chest tightened. This boy?

"Or a home either...,"

_This boy?_

"Well, what about a mom or dad?" Henry asked. He could feel pity for the child, and did his best to show it as softly as he could.

"Yeah...but I never met 'em...," the boy answered, almost sorrowful.

_If this is the same boy that nearly cut their throats with a chainsaw..._

"They left South Ashfield Heights right after I was born." The boy huddled against the pedestal before stepping out to the side, back straight with a warm smile on his face.

_This couldn't be the same boy_.

"But soon I'll get to see my mom!" he beamed excitedly. Henry crouched down to the boy's height again, studying him closely.

"Do you know where she is now?" he asked. If he could escort the boy there, that might have been for the best—even though he and Eileen currently had no possible way of escaping this realm, much less helping a wandering boy through it to find his parents.

But the boy specified his mother...why only his mother?

"Yeah, of course!" the little boy answered, "Right where I was born. Lots of people tried to stop me, but it's fine now..."

Henry stared at the boy quizzically, almost trying to pry through the boy's mind to find out how it worked, how the boy's logic had come to such a conclusion. Red flags and warning signs started to flare in his brain, and all of the sudden he was very, very wary of the boy. Little kids did not talk like that. Little kids did not _think_ like that.

The boy's eyes shone as he continued, "It says in the Scriptures that I'll be with her."

This was not a little kid.

Not a normal little kid anyways.

This was the same Walter Sullivan.

"I gotta hurry, Mom's waiting!" he exclaimed as he ran off.

_I gotta hurry, Mom's waiting!_

It was impossible, but at the same time true. That child, with bright eyes, chubby cheeks and hand-me-down clothes would become—or already is—the infamous serial killer after Henry and Eileen's necks. He froze as he watched the boy run off towards the entrance to the cave. Stopping just before the gate, the boy, little Walter Sullivan, stood still as he stared up at Eileen. Hesitating, the two stared at each other. Eileen stiffened in discomfort and looked as though she was going to step backwards when the boy thawed and disappeared into the cave.

It was better to let him go. Seeing that the actual Walter (if anything could be called actual about him) was already an adult, trying to save the child seemed like a useless cause. Even if this world seemed to reside in a different dimension, Henry couldn't wrap his brain around how saving the little boy now would benefit them in the future if at all. In his mind it was already far too late.

The statue on top of the pedestal finally caught Henry's attention. It was the same as before, except that it was now coupled with a strange metal shield. Engraved in red ink, the shield bore the mark of the peculiar halo Henry had seen on doors and around holes. Accidentally breaking the arm of the statue off as he removed it, he wiped the dirt and moisture away as Eileen limped up.

"That kid...becomes the man in the coat...," she muttered his thoughts aloud in disbelief. Henry inwardly winced. Again, there was no consolidation that he could give. Eileen rubbed her eye, "I'm sorry, it's just a lot to think about...,"

Henry gave a small gesture to the cave, "Maybe we should go?"

She twisted her mouth, weary and gazing out to the too-distant Toluca Lake.

"No...no it's fine here. I don't feel threatened or...or watched." Part of that was a lie. She was perpetually in a state of paranoia, and nothing here could ever calm that. But the overlook to a lake she recognized brought her some serenity. Looking at Henry, she no longer seemed worried, just tired. Very tired.

He nodded.

Waiting until she had sat down against the rock face of the cave, Henry entered the hole, leaving the torch and shield with her and her independent thoughts.

–

Wincing as he woke up on top of his left side, Henry slowly rolled out of bed, holding his injured arm tenderly. Eileen had been right, he should've taken care of this sooner. Carefully rolling his sleeve up, he grimaced at the ruined flesh on his arm. Red and white had exploded on his skin like fireworks, puffy and irritated as they angrily intertwined over his muscles. Opening and closing his hand, he breathed through his teeth to dull the pain. How he had not noticed the pain in the forest he did not know, because if he so much as tried to twitch his finger it felt as if he had doused his arm in kerosene and had deliberately lit it on fire again. Curiously poking at the layer of pus over the burn, Henry stood up, keeping his eyes focused in fascinated disgust on his arm. Making a sort of beeline for his kitchen sink, he tried to think cooling thoughts to help his arm function. Twisting the knob at the sink, he held his arm under the faucet.

The bowels of the pipes rumbled and sputtered, and he readied an exasperated sigh as he expected the water to stop working when the sink coughed, roared, and vomited globs of heavy, thick, warm blood. Henry's eyes widened in horror as the blood splotched onto his wounded arm, and as the globs turned into a raging stream the Medallion under his shirt shattered with a hot, white pop, launching his mind into pain. Screaming and falling to the ground, he writhed in agony as the sink quickly filled to the brim. Crawling on his kitchen floor, he tried to escape the grasp of the poltergeist as sticky red liquid began to pour in waterfalls over the edge of the countertop and onto his back. Scambling onto the carpet, he broke free of the haunting with a lame lope back onto his feet. Snatching the box of matches up, he fiddled with the candle in his pocket. Blood pooling on the kitchen linoleum and spreading quickly, Henry cursed his injured arm as he struggled to light the match.

The candle lit into white holy flame. Steeling himself, Henry stepped into the pool of blood just as it was lapping at the edges of the carpet. The wax began to melt fast, and the the candle gave Henry feeble protection he could feel the angry, murderous force behind the roar of the sink. The poltergeist was strong, and would not go so easily. Henry pushed the candle towards the faucet, bound and determined to kill it.

Though it was improbable to think so, he swore he felt wet fingers close tightly around his ankle as he slipped and fell, dropping the candle into the vat of blood as he tumbled to the floor. The headache snarled ferociously as it returned, striking Henry weak as he lied there in the pool.

"No, no, no, no, _no, damn_ it!" he swore, using the doors of the cupboards and shelves to aid him as he pawed for the matches he had left on the top of the counter that caged him in the kitchen. Fumbling with the matches, he stood up and growled at the faucet and the never ending stream of blood. Leaning on the counter for support, he tightened his muscles against the pain and dove his hand into the sink, fishing for the lost candle. He could feel the vat of blood working against him, but he soon found the candle and brought it to the surface. Knees trembling as his head pounded, he dried the wick on the lapel of his shirt, struck the match, and lit the bloodstained Holy Candle.

The faucet roared in rage. Henry wedged the candle just behind it, snarling hatefully. "_Go back to hell_."

The cascade of blood calmed to a stream, then to a trickle, then to measly drips in the glassy lake in the sink. The candle burned to the base and the faucet fell silent. Gurgling, the drain hummed as all the blood, from the depths of the sink to the fingers of blood that had almost reached the broken coffee table in the living area retreated, leaving no trace but the soaked man whom had collapsed onto his seat in exhaustion.

His head hurt. His arm still hurt. Bringing his slippery hands to his face, Henry wept piteously.

It just wasn't fair.

_None_ of this was fair.

Waiting until he could breathe normally, he stood up. Expecting the sink to spit blood again, he tentatively turned the knob at an arm's length. The sink rumbled deeply, and Henry flinched in response, fearful of what would come out of the faucet.

Pure water poured out, untouched and benevolent. Losing his wariness due to exhaustion, Henry was just glad that the poltergeist was gone and had not returned.

Dipping his arm underneath cold water, Henry gratefully let it rest. Pus and blood discolored the water running down the drain as it cleansed Henry's skin. He closed his eyes. He could almost fall asleep here, standing up with his arm underneath cold water coming from a sink that had previously been demonically possessed.

Breaking away from his trance, Henry turned the sink off and grabbed a disposable dish towel, gently wrapping his arm in it. Rolling his sleeve back down, he visited his bathroom, taking the first aid kit out of the towel cabinet. Making sure he had everything needed with him, he climbed back into the hole.

–

Henry landed roughly, tumbling forward onto his shaky knees. Eileen glanced over, casually at first, but soon horrified as she saw the sheer amount of blood staining and dripping from his clothes. Scarring the dirt with her high heels, Eileen pushed herself to her feet and stumbled to his side.

"Henry!" she gasped in worry, tentatively placing a hand on his shoulder, "Are you alright?"

Tiredly, Henry tried to right himself, glancing at Eileen then back to his clothes.

"Oh," he muttered, seeing the bright red blood. He shifted onto his seat, "You don't want to know...,"

"Are you hurt?" she asked, wishing that she could use her left arm.

"No," he murmured in response, "Just my head."

Eileen's hand moved from his shoulder to his hair, cracked nails combing through the thick blood that had started to clump together. He flinched whenever her fingers tugged at a forming knot, but she was as gentle as she could be as she searched his head for any injuries.

"Just blood," he supplied, "No cuts." Eileen dropped her hand. He wiped the blood away from his eyes with bloody fingers, gaining no progress and only worsening his sight. Sighing and scowling, he dropped his hands as well, pushing the first aid kit off of his lap and onto the ground.

"My room is hell," he mentioned quietly. Out of politeness, Eileen's eyes fell from his face, resting on his blackened sleeve.

"How's your arm?" she asked softly. He shrugged. He guessed out loud that it felt better, but in his state he didn't really know. The one broken rib he had squealed as he shrugged, and he winced quietly. He must've gotten used to the shallow breathing and the pain that he had to survive through. If he thought about it, he could barely remember the first injury he received, the horrible dog bite that clamped down on his leg. Distantly he wondered if that even still hurt anymore or if he had simply pushed it away.

Eileen stood up and circled around him, first aid kit in hand. "I think that cut is still bleeding, on your face," She tossed the kit to the ground just to Henry's left. She stood there for a while, wavering between two decisions.

"Here, let me take a look at that," Eileen said quietly, using the rock face to ease herself down to the damp ground. Politely looking the other way, Henry pretended not to notice the pain in her voice as she sat down, sliding the first aid kit in front of her folded legs. Toluca Lake rested in misty darkness beyond the fence that separated ledge from ravine. He gazed out to the clouded waters. It was, perhaps, the one lake with the most emotion he had ever encountered and photographed. It was a landscape that remained stuck in his mind no matter where he went. Something about the raw depth of the both the water and the sorrow it carried with it burned in his mind almost to the point where he couldn't take a photograph of a different lake from the weight this one had for him.

He flinched as Eileen's soft fingertips touched the side of his face, the rough stubble prickling softly at her skin. She murmured a low apology, and pulled back the locks of hair that covered the jagged cut running from the lobe of his ear to the outer reaches of his chin. Blood from his hair traced around her fingers, painting thin red lines on her pale skin.

"You're lucky," she muttered, "Any closer than that and it would've been your neck...,"

He swallowed and gave a small nod. Luck wasn't something he normally believed in, but there had to be something there that saved his jugular from the teeth of that chainsaw. Hell, he was lucky to survive that entire encounter and all of the ones before and after that. Why did Jasper's unholy fire go out so quickly, how had he escaped with such a minor burn compared to what should have been? He wondered; was there something that was keeping him from death? Was he simply not meant to die yet, and thus he could survive the cruelty of Walter Sullivan's Other Worlds?

"This is gonna sting," Eileen warned. Henry shut his eyes as she pressed alcohol-soaked cotton to his jaw, sending tendrils of fire through his cheek and bringing the faint taste of metal to his mouth. She cleaned the wound gently, running the cotton over his ear and jaw. Dabbing the loose blood away and picking away at whatever blood had crusted dry on his skin, she took another cotton ball from the kit and began to dry the alcohol.

"Wish I had some medical polymer," she murmured thoughtfully, "Or some stitches,"

Henry flinched instinctively away from her mention of the stitches and she gave a small smirk.

"It's not that big of a cut, but it'd be better if it were closed somehow. Especially in a place like this...,"

Henry settled back down against the rock wall. Trying to sound casual, he kept his eyes on Toluca Lake, "Medical school?"

She shook her head, "Red Cross classes. I was...I was planning on going to the Peace Corps one day," Speaking past the lump that had formed in her throat, Eileen leaned against the wall for support. Her voice grew very quiet.

"I wanted to go somewhere where it would be more of a struggle to live, and to help people too, I...,"

"I guess I was like that, back then...,"

"Back then?" Henry asked, glancing over to her. All he could see was her hair covering the bandaged eye, and couldn't make out the expression on her face.

"I...Dammit, Henry, _look_ at me," Fire seeped into her voice, lonely and confused, "I don't know what I did, but I _must've_ done something wrong, and I...I'm _scared_. I'm really _scared_."

Henry was going to protest, to tell her that she had in fact done nothing wrong, but he couldn't speak. After all, in his mind he hadn't done anything wrong either aside from choosing the wrong apartment to live in, and this was the punishment he was receiving. It certainly felt like a punishment for something and not just another mere case of bad luck.

Luck.

That word again.

Did he believe in luck? In karma?

With everything that had happened, could he still believe in those things after everything Walter Sullivan had planned and done?

Silence separated them, Eileen's breaths shifting between a rasp and a pant as they sat there. The mist shifted over Toluca Lake, forever keeping it in a shroud that only had parted for Henry once the day he had visited Silent Hill with his camera in hand. Seeing it now, he didn't believe that he would ever get the chance to see it in the sunlight ever again.

"What did you go to school for?" Henry finally asked after a long time, "Aside from archeology."

Eileen gave him a strange look. There was a hint of surprise in her eye, and he blinked, uncomfortable and wondering if he had said the wrong thing.

"You listened? I thought that you were just ignoring me—I mean, you didn't really respond and...," Eileen paused as Henry shifted uneasily and looked away, embarrassed.

"Anthropology," she answered finally, the strain in her voice released, "I majored in things that would help me with...help me in the Peace Corps. Culture, that sort of thing,"

She watched Henry as he slowly let go of his agitation, knowing that he was relieved at her honest and relaxed answer. Asking him what classes he had taken, she watched in hidden curiosity as he shook his head.

"Journalism, art. It didn't end well...,"

Eileen didn't pry, nor did she really want to. It was more just listening to him speak, seeing him react to her presence. Of course she knew now that he was always aware of her presence, moreso than she initially believed, but she was deeply glad that he was attempting to talk to her. Earlier, at the hospital, if he had tried at any conversation that touched upon something other than their immediate situation she would most certainly shoot him down and cut him off. That wouldn't have been a very nice or polite thing to do, but she had not even tried to trust him then. She was trying, and hopefully succeeding now. It was hard to become partial to him even now—he was shy, sloppy, introverted, quiet and not very comforting, exactly the opposite she had in her closest friends and relationships. But he had saved her life more than once. Other times were much more subtle than when he had shot Walter, and they weren't as blatant to her as he was also saving himself along with her, but she would definitely not survive more than an hour without him. Even with the accidents that had happened, most notably him hitting her with the axe, he was at the very least extremely apologetic and ashamed.

"Art?" she asked, forcing a smile on her face. It was hard to even fake happiness and interest in a place like this.

"Yeah...," he muttered, staring out onto the surface of the lake through the trees. He was _very_ aware that she was staring at him, "Photography. Some...some sketching, too."

"Sounds nice," she continued as her smile fell to a frown, "Peaceful. Calm...,"

Henry heard the drop in her voice and looked over to her. She was staring absentmindedly into the ground, troubled. When she noticed him she twisted her mouth and turned away.

"Sorry," she whispered, "It's this place...and, well," She didn't want to admit it, but the more they talked about themselves the more she yearned for things to return to normal and the more it hurt her. Somehow though he seemed to understand without the words being spoken, and he turned back to the landscape in front of them. It was tranquil and soothing to gaze at, the small town of Silent Hill resting just beyond the dark waters of the lake. A great sleepiness fell on Eileen, and she drooped, swaying. Henry watched her from his peripheral vision as she drooped and jolted in attempts to keep her awake. Finally she laid back against the rock wall, her shoulder close to his, unable to fight it off.

"Henry," she murmured, desperation and fear in her voice, "Don't let me fall asleep," It was useless, of course. Both knew that that was impossible, and she would sooner rather than later nod off into slumber. He could only give a confirming blink in response. She whimpered at her own weakness, and slowly slumped down, her cheek falling to his shoulder.

He envied her. His horrific insomnia forced him awake—he could no longer feel the blessing of sleepiness anymore. Of course he knew that with the nightmares she was having that it wouldn't be long until she was just like him, but if he could he would fight her insomnia for as long as it was possible. She needed all the rest she could grasp, and even though she would have nightmares to deplete her soul nothing could hurt her in her dreams. As long as he was awake (and he would be awake despite the great tiredness that tried to overwhelm him) there could be no harm in letting her sleep.

He shifted his right leg. The stains from putting an end to so many monster's lives were permanent now. Red and brown had caked and soaked into the blue denim, drying and stiffening. The cuffs were even fraying from all of the acid that had been eating away at it. His shoes were in no better shape. Sighing, he relaxed his shoulder as much as he could so Eileen would be more comfortable.

Though he tried to think of other things, she would not leave his thoughts. The way she breathed, the way she had so gently cleaned the cut on his face. She had wanted to join the Peace Corps, had even taken classes in preparation for it. It was almost maddening that she seemed to no longer want to anymore. She would be great at it, Henry knew. In any country they sent her to she would love and be loved. But Walter had changed all that, hadn't he? Henry couldn't blame her for her fear, that was impossible. Even yet, he wanted her to go to the Peace Corps despite everything. Would he miss her presence, and would he miss her presence even if she had left before the Other World sucked her in? Dearly. But if she had gone to the Peace Corps instead of stayed around her apartment, she could've been spared.

He would've been alone here in this Hell, but she could've been spared.

He would be alone but she would be spared.

The craggy rock wall felt cold and rough as he rested the back of his head against it.

Why did that seem to matter more than anything else now, even his own safety?

She could've been spared.

_Maybe not_. He grimaced. Through the Other Worlds, Walter would've been able to attack her at any place she was. At least, that's how Henry figured it.

But still, if he could dream, he would like to dream.

He gazed out to the murky waters. All the detail and most of the beauty of the lake lied hidden from his view, draining away all the things he hungered for in one of his photographs. But he took what he was offered, bleakness and all.

It's not like he had anything else to look at anyways.


	20. Chapter 20

_That sheep...That damn sheep...What the hell was that sheep doing there anyways?_

_Wait, please don't answer that._

* * *

**Chapter 20**

It seemed only minutes later when Henry woke her up. After she had regained some alertness, she stood up with him, only slightly rested. Silently noticing the new band-aid gracing the ugly bruise on her arm that she had received from Henry, she marveled at the skill and care he must have taken to bandage her without waking her. Henry disappeared for a moment to return the kit to the closet in his room, and when he reappeared they walked towards the cave, Eileen reading some entries of the strange diary to Henry despite her desperation to avoid them.

"_October 21. Sunday is the day I leave the round cell to read the Book. I read very well today. If I can do a good job reading the 21 Sacraments for the Descent of the Holy Mother, I can meet _my _mother. The important lady told me that. But tomorrow I'm going to the round cell again._

"_October 28. I have to take a train or something to get to Ashfield. Everyone says Ashfield is a scary place, but I really want to see my mommy._

"_February 10. I went to visit Ashfield again. Again, I..._something...something..._mommy_. Some of it's blurred and I can't read past there...Henry,"

She turned to him. He blinked in surprise.

"I don't like reading these...it's like...it's like they get in my head, and I don't know if I'm...reading...his diary or...,"

She didn't want to say the words. Shutting her eyes, she ended her small plea with a 'nevermind' and turned, torch in hand and chain wrapped around her arm. Henry fiddled with the crested shield before tucking it under his arm. Making a mental note of what Eileen said, he wordlessly promised her that if he saw anymore entries of the diary he wouldn't make her read them. He wished, however, that she would've said something earlier if the words bothered her that much...but there was nothing to do now. He was quite sure that they wouldn't be any actual harm in the long run, anyways. She was probably just disturbed by the abundance of neglect and abuse.

Lighting the torch on the brazier on their way into the cave, they remained wordless to each other as they stepped into the abandoned mining tunnel. Unwittingly stepping straight into a crowd of angered ghosts, Henry gritted his teeth to fight the headaches as he wove his way through to the other side, Eileen following and using the torch to ward off any curious ones. Henry inwardly kicked himself. He had forgotten to take a Medallion from the trunk, and now he was suffering the consequences for it. The ghost's power weren't that strong compared to some of the others he had encountered (namely Cynthia and Jasper) but it didn't make the pain any less dangerous.

Shutting the gate behind them in relief, they approached the well just off the path, the corpses of the two monsters just within their view. Eileen stared at them and shuddered as Henry dug out a right leg from the depths of the well. He didn't notice her discomfort, and she was partially thankful for this as he simply urged her onwards back to the courtyard.

Henry attached the right leg to the mannequin gingerly, wary of its tottering weight. The boards underneath it had begun to creak, and if any more weight was put on the wheelchair the smoldering wood beneath it might shatter and crack. Stepping away cautiously, he stepped off the foundation and returned to Eileen.

Taking the torch from Eileen's hand, he stared at her to get his message across without having to use words.

She got the message all too quickly and had begun to fearfully whisper in protest.

He grimaced. The last thing he had wanted to happen was to talk to her, to explain why he was leaving her behind. It was for her own sake, and deep down she must've known it, but now he seemed outwardly uncaring.

She stared at him forlornly, kneading at the ground anxiously with her feet. She understood, he knew, but she needed to understand _more_. Henry opened his mouth but only piteous sounds escaped instead of reassurance, and Eileen winced and turned away.

"Come back quickly," she whispered before sitting down on the charred steps. Henry felt as though she had kicked him in the gut, and he retreated to the door that ultimately led to the unkempt graveyard. He left the axe with her, which was probably not the best decision, but he wanted to be in and out as quickly as possible and wanted to feel as light as possible.

Henry opened the door slowly, poking his head through to check for any signs of Walter. When only the heavy panting of dogs answered him, he slipped through the door and shut it securely behind him before anything to leave it pried open. Sneaking despite the lack of evidence that Walter was about, Henry managed to ease past the dogs without any injury or ruckus. There was a suspicious blood splatter on the path up to the gate, and Henry sickly remembered harshly shooting the crazed murderer in the face, but no other trace of Walter remained. Opening the far gate, Henry tried to beat back the sense of cockiness that was building up in his chest from the murderer's absence. He knew that Walter wasn't dead, he knew that by still being here and he couldn't at any time let his guard down.

_Especially_ because Eileen was alone and waiting for him and would be forever if he couldn't return.

Iron fingers clenched his gut and as Henry jogged to the well on the far side of the area he desperately tried to push horrid thoughts from his mind. Thoughts of Walter slipping through the door after Henry had deemed it safe so he could reach Eileen and torture and kill her while Henry was gone. Visions of her mangled corpse floated in his mind without his consent, causing the iron fingers to dig deeper. He bit his lip and chased the images away as he leaned over the edge of the well and shined the torch down.

The flickering light shone on the planes of the mannequin's head, nestled comfortably between pine needles, mud, and discarded cigarette wrappers. Keeping the torch's fire away from his head but still shining downwards the best he could, Henry bent over the edge of the well to retrieve the head.

Henry's knees buckled at the sharp pain as Walter kicked them in. The torch tumbled into the well, the flame slowly dying against the wet dirt. Snapping his head back, Henry's eyes widened to see Walter standing there where he wasn't supposed to be, and he swung his arm back to deter him. Walter caught it, twisted it, and pinned Henry against the well.

"I wonder if you'll scream the same way she did...," Walter breathed in his ear as he pushed his weight against Henry's arm, "when her arm finally broke."

Henry gurgled in a pathetic growl and squirmed, though he quickly regretted it as it only made the pain much more intense. Trying to mask a wince, he gritted his teeth and hissed quietly, free but all-together useless hand clenching the edge of the well desperately.

"Don't complain," Walter huffed, "If this was fair you wouldn't have a face anymore."

Henry took a short moment to marvel at how a man's voice could smell so rank of decaying flesh and rotting blood. Walter's hands gripped harder, twisting the skin on Henry's arm and pulling it up higher in a direction it wasn't meant to go.

He screamed wretchedly as the burned, angry skin tore apart, allowing more pus and blood to trickle out into the ruined dish cloth. Cussing under his shaky breath, Henry felt hatred boil up from his stomach. Not only had he just about forgotten the original pain in that arm, he had allowed himself to be captured, and now he wasn't sure what would happen; he only knew that Walter wasn't letting him leave here without a fight.

And in his current position, Henry couldn't fight.

The pain became unbearable and he was just waiting for it to erupt under the pressure; waiting for his bones to snap and break so that he could start dealing with the pain. Black spots danced in his vision and he felt himself to begin to fade from the override even though he was struggling to prepare himself for the tidal wave that was sure to push him over the brink.

"I don't have to kill you yet," Walter said soothingly, all too maddeningly like a sympathetic parent, "Not yet, Receiver. But I can."

Henry snarled a phrase he hadn't uttered since he was in college and shot his elbow back as a last reflex. He had hoped to at least nail Walter in the gut, but he hit something much more important instead, and Walter's hold on him immediately loosened. Weakly wrenching his arm away, Henry breathed heavily in relief as Walter stumbled away, crouched over. Moving his hand to the hip of his jeans, Henry grasped the handle of the gun and clicked the safety off, pointing it at Walter.

Walter glared and charged, catching Henry off-guard. He pulled the trigger but Walter's weight bowled into him, sending him over the edge and down the well. Henry yelped in surprise then pain as something bruised and cracked as his rear end hit the uneven bottom of the well. Walter looked down from above and sneered. Wordlessly, he drew his own gun and pointed it at the easy target, aiming for the space between Henry's wide white eyes.

Panicking, Henry fumbled and pulled the trigger several more times until the gun ran empty. Something rained down on his face, but because Walter was just a dark shadow against the light he couldn't tell if it was blood or debris from the crumbling wall of the well. Heart racing as the gun clicked uselessly, Henry yelped again as something tumbled down and hit his knee. He flinched and covered his head meekly, waiting for Walter to shoot him into a deeper oblivion than this.

Opening a wary eye when nothing happened, he noticed Walter's gun lying to the side of his leg, where it had landed after falling onto his knee. Henry looked up tentatively at Walter's limp shadow, waiting for two agonizing minutes before he was sure Walter was dead.

Several moments later, once his heart stopped racing, Henry curled his long limbs awkwardly until he was able to stand up in the narrow well. They had been splayed crookedly in the tight space and were awfully uncomfortable. If his ankles weren't already sprained, they were now from the unpleasant fall. As an embarrassing bonus, his ass hurt with every move, and he rubbed it ruefully, wincing. He hoped it wasn't broken, but part of him knew that if it wasn't broken then he was some sort of superhero. Giving a half-hearted glare to Walter's dangling corpse, Henry tucked the gun back in his waistband.

Plucking the head from the garbage and damp dirt, Henry twisted his mouth at the broken torch that his body no doubt had broken on the way down. Oh well. No saving it now. Weighing the head experimentally in his hands, he looked up the worn walls of the well, struggling to judge them in the dim light.

He was a good eleven feet down into the ground, which wasn't so bad if he was standing at his full height. Five feet of craggy old stone towered above his head on all sides, and climbing wouldn't be too difficult even for someone as inflexible as Henry. The mannequin head, however, would make things difficult. Sighing as he slowly began to realize how ridiculous the situation was, he chucked the head as best he could, satisfied when the head landed on the ground outside of the well. Rubbing his raw hands together, Henry prayed that his hurting butt wouldn't hinder him too much as he began to climb the wall.

His legs quickly melted to jello from the pain, especially when he put his full weight on his toes. Coughing, heaving, and fighting back bitter tears, Henry distracted himself with the edited version of the story he was going to give Eileen when he got back. _No Eileen, I wasn't stupid and I didn't allow myself to be pushed down a well, breaking my ass in the process. Promise. _A brick crumbled beneath one of his feet and he snorted in surprise as his leg flailed uselessly before he found his footing again. Why him, of all people, of all scenarios? Why him?

Beyond exasperated by the time he was able to crawl out and onto the soft ground, Henry was supremely grateful that he had survived, although he wasn't sure his dignity was still intact. Pawing around until he found the mannequin's head in the tall dead grass, he stood up on shaky feet, biting his lip and silently weeping from the pain. Ignoring Walter's corpse, Henry stubbornly left the area. To avoid the dogs he walked as fast as he could without breaking out into a run. The sharp pain was starting to fade, and he was sincerely hoping that this was going to be a case of a broken bone that could be ignored despite the constant dull pain in the background.

Eileen jumped when the door squeaked open, and she turned, staring at Henry to check and check again until she was sure he _was_ Henry and he was alone and all right. She frowned in concern when he wobbled closer to her, as if he was limping but he couldn't decide which foot was injured. Dropping the head on the platform of the Wish House, he idly watched it roll until it rocked to a stop just behind where Eileen sat. She made a small gesture to the space beside her, wondering if he needed to rest, but he just looked painfully and almost disgustedly at the charred wood. Confused, Eileen tried to mask the growing suspicion inside her and instead calmly inquired what had happened.

Henry stuttered for a moment, then answered in a low, muttered growl that Eileen couldn't hear. Asking him to clarify only brought a twisted snarl to his face before he repeated himself.

"I got pushed down the well," he breathed, exasperated, "And...And I can't sit."

Eileen stared at him wide-eyed, then dropped her gaze and covered her mouth inconspicuously to hide the small smile that involuntarily appeared on her face. Nonetheless, she managed to continue the conversation without betraying what she was hiding.

"Are you all right besides that?"

Henry shook his left arm ruefully and winced. Eileen wisely decided to not pursue the matter further, allowing him to stand awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot to spread the pain out.

Henry desperately wanted to apologize for his somewhat rude behavior, but he couldn't figure out how to form his words so they not only made sense but they were also something that he would be able to say in front of her. In his defense, he was very much in pain that he could've easily avoided, and that above all else gave him a grouchy disposition despite the fact that he wasn't hurt fatally. He had seen the hint of a smile on her face that she had smoothly covered up for his sake, but knowledge of her humor toward the matter didn't make him any angrier. In fact, he had to agree with her. From an outside perspective, what had just happened was borderline slapstick. If he thought about hard enough and forgot enough of the pain, he could manage a smile too. Again, he wanted to tell her this along with the apology, but he couldn't find a way to word it properly. Over and over again he had given up the conversation before he even attempted to open his mouth. Just as was usual with him and women, she never even fathomed that he was struggling to speak with her.

Finally, when the pain in his rear had started to fade to the point where he could move easier, he climbed up the steps to the Wish House and picked the mannequin's head up. Eileen took the message and followed him, standing back as he carefully placed the head on the wheelchair. The boards and wheelchair creaked at the last bit of added weight, and Henry had to gingerly skip away from the wheelchair as it wobbled. Something underneath it snapped and the wheelchair hurled onto its back, tossing the mannequin over the edge of the platform. Whatever was left of the weak boards that held the wheelchair splintered, and the chair disappeared down into the platform, tumbling and crashing down a flight of stairs until it smashed into the concrete wall of the basement. Henry and Eileen flinched until the loudness was over, peering curiously at the hole that was left. Helping Eileen gather their scattered things, Henry led the way down the staircase, treading carefully until he was sure that the floor around the stone stairs wouldn't collapse.

Eileen twisted her mouth and held out her hand for Henry to gently grasp. Feeling very off-balance, she depended on Henry to keep her upright as she uneasily stepped down onto the stair. Ducking their heads under the low ceiling, they slowly descended the staircase until they were in the virtually untouched basement.

It was very plain and industrial; nothing but four walls and a floor of gray concrete colored only by cracks, mold, and a great red circle of the cursed halo Henry had seen so often painted on doors and around the wormholes to his apartment. The red halo hovered above a casual altar that had several books and candles stacked on it. One book in particular caught Henry's eye—it was leather-bound with a dark green binding and thin worn pages. It appeared to be a bible of some kind, though whatever religion it belonged to was a religion that Henry wasn't familiar with. The scripture was in English, though, and was accompanied by sickeningly detailed drawings that depicted scenes and rituals Henry was sure that even the most liberal of religious sects would deem blasphemous. Eileen limped up and peeked over his shoulder to read as he did. Henry was grateful for this, as he then didn't have to read the words out loud. The words, as he saw, were misleading and seemed to be tainted by some sort of underworld truth, and he wanted nothing more than to not utter them at that moment.

_The Descent of the Holy Mother: The 21 Sacraments_

_The First Sign_

_And God said, At the time of fullness, cleanse the world with my rage. Gather forth the White Oil, the Black Cup and the Blood of the Ten Sinners. Prepare for the Ritual of the Holy Assumption._

_The Second Sign_

_And God said, Offer the Blood of the Ten Sinners and the White Oil. Be then released from the bonds of the flesh, and gain the Power of Heaven. From the Darkness and Void, bring forth Gloom, and gird thyself with Despair for the Giver of Wisdom._

_The Third Sign_

_And God said, Return to the Source through sin's Temptation. Under the Watchful eye of the demon, wander alone in the formless Chaos. Only then will the Four Atonements be in alignment._

_The Last Sign_

_And God said, separate from the flesh too, she who is the Mother Reborn and he who is the Receiver of Wisdom. If this be done, by the Mystery of the 21 Sacraments, the Mother shall be reborn and the Nation of Sin shall be redeemed._

Henry shivered. Those words meant too many things that he knew too much of. The four words, Temptation, Source, Watchful, Chaos, those words were all held in place in his apartment at this very moment, symbolizing the deaths of the people they stood for. Whatever he was reading was something he vaguely recognized from before, and the last phrase referring to a person...the "Receiver of Wisdom", he had been called 'Receiver' by both monsters and the king of monsters, Walter Sullivan himself.

_It says in the Scriptures that I'll be with her!_

No. No, he wasn't going to think about this now. Ripping out the page of the bible, he stuffed it into his pocket as Eileen watched him, confused and vaguely afraid. Henry shrugged even though he knew that she was having similar thoughts to him. After scanning the small basement and finding nothing else of interest, he took the shield with the red halo marking on it and approached the door set into the basement's wall. There was a depression in the door about ten inches in diameter, and Henry had a hunch that the shield belonged here, marking their exit out of this world.

It fit like a charm, and after he twisted it tightly into place there was a loud click, and the door knob moved smoothly. He closed the door after they both went through, finding themselves on another foggy spiral staircase. The fog was darker than before, giving the impression that they were in more of an ash cloud rather than a thick fog. Everything seemed more rickety too, and Eileen kept close to Henry as they descended slowly.

"Is that a _sheep_?" Eileen gasped in shock. Henry stopped and for once looked at the morbid scenery, and saw, indeed, a rather large sheep simply standing there, thick with unsheared wool and as expressionless as the rest of its species. It didn't move, but for some reason Henry didn't believe that it was stuffed. What was more disturbing was that it was seemingly untouched by the corruption about it—no blood, no wounds, no dirt or filth even. Just a simple, wool-white sheep that stood there, uncaring and unaware.

"What...In the name of...," Eileen blinked and shook her head as if it would make more sense. Some deeper symbolism must have been attached to the presence of the sheep, but Henry didn't want to contemplate it to figure it out. He ushered Eileen to move, and, thankfully, she did not need any more urging than that to begin to follow him again.

He stopped at the piece of wall that ended the bridge from the middle of the staircase. Eileen sighed softly, and nodded for him to go. A pang of guilt tugged at him, but Henry needed bullets for the pistol otherwise it would be rendered useless when he needed it most. He crawled into the hole.

Eileen eyed the sheep from afar as he was gone. _How disturbing_, she mused, _why would __something as simple as that be here?_

She slid to the floor and sighed again. _Why am I here?_

Her mind left to wander as if she was pondering the question, but she spent no energy on finding the answer. She didn't _want_ the answer. The only thing she wanted now was release from this world that was rapidly grabbing a hold of her; a hold that she could tell was not so easily shaken. Perhaps she would go insane, and in that blessed insanity she would forget what horror felt like and she could live on in ignorant bliss, alone in her own little white coat and little white room that she could decorate with her thoughts of happiness and solitude.

She thought of Henry. No, she didn't like solitude, which was why she wished he would return quickly every time he disappeared. If she went insane, she wanted him to go insane with him, that way they'd be able to at least spend some time together, hopefully.

Eileen frowned. No. She wouldn't wish that fate on Henry. He's been through things that would've driven others insane and yet he still appeared sane to her. He was stronger than that despite all the wounds he was accumulating, not the least of which being his broken ass. (Or so she assumed that it was broken, it was the most logical thing she could conclude at his anger and slight embarrassment at the subject.) In fact, she couldn't wish anything on Henry, nothing remotely malicious anyways. Henry was too...steadfast. Too altruistic. Too undeserving of any fate he was suffering now. She scrunched her eyes tight. Part of her regretted not talking to Henry earlier, back before all this hell crashed down on their heads. Often she would watch his silent day-to-day movements, intrigued by how someone so different than her lived. In fact, she was planning to at least ask him about accompanying her to the party she was supposed to go to. She had no one else at the moment to go with anyways, and he always seemed so drawn within himself that he had become numb to his own loneliness.

Eileen was thankful that Henry had returned before her thoughts turned bitter towards the party she had failed to show up to. She scrambled her way to her feet and followed Henry out to the staircase.

Making a mental note to keep her damned eyes _away_ from the scenery about her, she froze when she saw before her a swinging woman bound by leather and metal. A huge, rusted cone served as a mask, poking through two thick wires that suspended the woman by her nipples. Eileen gulped down her shrieks of sheer terror as she remembered her nightmare, unaware that Henry had not seen the wretched display and had kept walking. She jolted, trying to force the sharp tension that was violating her breasts the more she gawked at the swinging woman. Trying to get her legs to start walking again, she began to panic as Henry's form began to meld with the surrounding ash cloud.

He had just begun to register that he wasn't hearing Eileen's footsteps behind him when her voice called out to him in a type of irritation best associated with fear.

"Don't get too far ahead...!" she called as she stumbled over her feet to catch up. Henry stopped immediately and turned to watch her limp furiously to catch up. Breathing hard and breaking out in a light sweat, Eileen struggled to descend the stairs in her heels, tripping and scuffing. She cursed hastily under her breath, though Henry figured that it was at her own incompetence rather than him. (At least, he _hoped_ it was at her incompetence and not at him.)

Eileen tripped, cried in fear, and stumbled right into Henry's chest. He coughed and stifled his own cry of pain, focusing on that rather than the sudden beet red his cheeks had become. Eileen dug her nails into his arms as her face scrunched in anger.

"_That one_," she hissed bitterly, twisting her head back to look at the accursed stair, "_That one_ was _grated_!"

Henry peered over her to see the single stair that was, indeed, made of grating. At first he was confused as to why she was so bitter, but she apparently quickly picked up on his confusion because she dug in deeper and stared up at him, her good eye fiery in contempt.

"I'm wearing _heels_ and that stair was _grated_!"

He gulped.

Oh. Right.

Glancing behind him to keep his still reddened face out of her interest, he tried to see if there were any other grated stairs ready to trap the poor woman, but he saw none. Nevertheless, he walked slow for her and kept a careful eye out. If she had fallen there she might've broken another limb or agitated something enough that she would have to be immobile indefinitely until it healed. Worst case scenario that wasn't too hard to imagine realistically, Eileen would've died from the rough tumbling the stairs would've taken her on.

The door wasn't too far away anyways, and as they walked the last steps to the door Henry could feel Eileen's fiery anger simmer down to a meek depression, even a mild embarrassment as he opened the door. The room beyond was small and round, the only defining thing about it was the capsule-like car inside. Henry guessed it was some sort of elevator though there were no buttons or directions to its name. Stepping in halfway first, Henry straddled the car and the room as he waited for Eileen to enter first, making sure that the door wouldn't close on them and separate them. He stepped in after her, and without any command the door closed and the capsule shook and descended. It was noisy and metallic, creaking and shaking within its reins, whatever reins they were. Eileen and Henry stood apart from one another, spanning the diameter of the room. Avoiding each other's gaze, they quietly waited as the elevator kept descending downwards without pause.

"Thank you...for catching me," Eileen muttered sincerely, distantly embarrassed.

"I—," Henry was going to protest, as he didn't _really _catch her, he just happened to be standing in the right place at the right time, but at the last moment he shut his mouth. He didn't need to crush her gratitude. "...You're welcome."

He thought she saw her smile, but it was hard to tell from the darkness of the bruises on her face.

The capsule jolted as it slowed, and they had to press against the walls to brace themselves as it settled down. Coming to a surprisingly gentle stop, the door slid open revealing a room not too different than the last. It was much wetter though; the stench of mildew permeated the atmosphere and Eileen wrinkled her nose against the dry smell.

"Do you know where we are?" she asked as she rubbed her nose. Henry recalled too many memories from the last time he was in the children's water prison. Not willing to reveal all the gruesome truth at once, he sighed, deflated, and told her as much as he could.

"It's a type of prison," he said. Eileen caught onto the difficulty in his voice immediately (she was getting rather good at this with him) and touched his arm before he felt the need to elaborate. After all, it would become apparent to her in time, wouldn't it? Henry rounded to the back of the capsule where there was a door. Twisting the knob, he opened it and stepped through, Eileen close behind.

A gun clicked, and Henry stepped back, pressing Eileen back into the door. Disgruntled, Eileen cried in protest until she saw what Henry saw.

Walter Sullivan was there at the bottom of a few steps, and he was pointing a gun at Henry's chest. Eileen stiffened behind Henry moments before he took off at a run, her wrist in hand. She stumbled but quickly recovered as the bolted past Walter through a gap that was way too small for their liking; they could smell Walter's breath as they passed. Shouldering the heavy door, Henry swung Eileen forward through the small gap before he too ducked through the door and slammed it shut.

"Not again, not again!" Eileen panted as Henry pressed his weight against the double doors. She glanced down, then cried a very vulgar word in rage as she saw that the entire walkway was grated.

"Eileen," Henry gasped calmly though his heart was racing, "Eileen,"

Eileen looked at him, breathing shrilly.

"Listen to me," he shoved his shoulder harder into the door as Walter pounded on the other side, "There's another set of doors about thirty feet down,"

"No," Eileen breathed, "No!"

"I know!" Henry replied in desperation equal to hers, "Inside the doors are multiple cells. Choose one and hide in it."

"_No_, Henry!"

"Please Eileen," he pleaded softly, "I...I can't protect you."

The door thudded again and Henry winced. Eileen tried to find words to argue, but she couldn't, not with the time allotted. She choked and reached down, unstrapping her damned heels. Henry watched her, curious, but impatient. Tossing the heels in front of the door in the false hopes Walter would trip over them, Eileen looked Henry in the eyes.

"Henry, don't do this to me."

Henry didn't respond. She knew he wouldn't.

Eileen turned and ran, chain clinking next to her swollen thigh. Henry swallowed a deep breath, holding the door for two more thuds before he let go and took off after Eileen, gripping the axe. His legs sent sharp pains running through his muscles, his cracked tailbone hindering him to stumbling down the spiraling walkway. Multiple shots, presumably from multiple guns, rang out behind Henry as he sprinted on raw adrenaline only. Moths, unhinged from the commotion, fluttered about his head, biting his cheeks as he stumbled past. He was just past halfway to the next set of doors before he finally gave into the pain and stopped running, though in reality he should've stopped running long ago. Panting heavily, he waited for Walter to turn the corner, guns raised.

He waited.

Walter didn't show.

Henry backed up a few steps, keeping close to the wall of the cylindrical prison. After counting to three in his head, he turned and set off to sprint again.

The first foot he put down landed askew, causing his leg to bend crookedly as he stumbled nearly to his knees from the insane amount of pain that stripped his legs of all strength. Feet stepping forward to catch his balance, he thought he saw Eileen's purple dress out of the corner of his eye as he turned back to see if Walter was following him when one single, arrogant shot tore through the white foggy air. Henry felt his side burst in pain that immediately overwrote the other, and a red mist clouded his vision as he crumpled on the walkway. The axe fell from his fingers, tumbling to the edge of the walkway, dangerously tipping over the abyss. Words exploded in his mind the moment his brain went numb from the shock, explaining to his frantic body what just happened.

_I've been shot I've been shot I've been shot I'm going to die oh no oh no Eileen I'm going to die_

A blood-curdling shriek sliced through the air, almost louder than the gun shot and Henry's heart constricted in sheer terror. Eileen limped into his quickly fading vision, tears streaking down her cheeks as she screamed in protest.

_Oh no oh no oh no Eileen no, no, NO_

Coppery blood pooled on his tongue and Henry shifted pathetically on the walkway as his vision blurred and threatened him until it darkened to black.


	21. Chapter 21

_Warning: Eileen has some Molly Weasley-esque moments towards the end here._

_And yes, I did spend half the chapter on character development. Why yes, Eileen _is_ my favorite character, thank you for asking! And yes, you are the victim of my negligence. Second half of this chapter is much less edited than the first._

_I fiddled around with a game over type situation, wondering what would I could do with it without starting over and repeating some of the stuff I've already covered. (Starting over again is another idea for a different fanfic)_

_So yes, essentially, Henry dies._

* * *

**Chapter 21**

Blood sprayed into the icy wind and she screamed.

The harsh grating bit into the soft skin on Eileen's feet as she raced forward to where Henry collapsed. Neverminding the blood that seeped from the cuts, she gripped Henry's collar fiercely and yanked on it. Henry choked and pawed weakly at the air.

"_Get up!_" she screamed, "_Get up, Henry! Please!_"

Oh thank god, he was still somewhat conscious.

Eileen wasn't willing to take her eyes off Henry, but in her peripheral she could see Walter, the man in the coat, leisurely walk to where they were. Henry coughed as he struggled to pull his feet from underneath him. Releasing his collar and grabbing his lapel instead, Eileen tugged again, harshly, and pulled him forward. He stumbled and struggled to catch himself before he fell again, but his knees refused to hold him.

"_Come on, Henry!_" Eileen encouraged breathlessly, pulling him forward again. Waiting until he was close enough, Eileen ducked under his left arm and pushed him close to her. Under her shaky support, she urged him forward as more gunshots buzzed by.

"_Come on, Henry, almost there!_"

The door was barely in sight around the curve of the cylindrical building, at least, and that was close enough for Eileen to at least grasp some hope. Though Henry dragged his feet clumsily across the grating, she kept him moving with bursts of adrenaline she thought she had lost long ago. Part of his shirt was warm, wet and sticky, but she was forcing herself to not look at the damage now. Right now she needed to _move_, and to do so she needed to summon every last bit of strength, stamina, concentration, and anything else she had held in reserve up to this point.

Henry gurgled something, perhaps a warning of some sort that he failed to communicate just before he crumpled and fell. Eileen cried in pain, shock, and fear as he tumbled, taking her with him. A gunshot whizzed overhead and suddenly Eileen was more grateful for the setback than she would've been had she not seen her life shiver before her because of the missed bullet. Regardless, she was still desperately screaming at him.

"_No, Henry, no no no! Get up, c'mon, almost there, almost there!_"

Henry's face contorted, and he clutched his side fiercely as Eileen helped him up. Keeping their heads down, they sprinted forward, huddled close together. Cowering before the never-ending gunshots that kept impossibly missing them, they reached the door just as Walter rounded to meet them from a line of sight that allowed for no mistakes. Eileen's heart raced, and she pushed Henry into the far door before she dug her already bleeding feet into the sharp metal. Despite the weight of the door, Eileen was able to one-handedly swing it open just far enough and fast enough to provide a flimsy shield between them and the bullets. Pulling Henry by the lapel again, she pushed him into the building, slamming the heavy door behind them. Panicking beyond reasonable thought, Eileen didn't stop to sight-see as she selected the first cell she saw. Henry was starting to slump against her and she knew that there was no second burst of energy behind this one.

Flinging the cell door open, she clumsily tumbled inside with Henry awkwardly twisted under her arm, crossing the threshold into the small room just as a twin-faced demon launched itself onto the floor where they had been moments ago. Eileen slammed the door shut after inhaling sharply in surprise. Way too damn close.

Henry coughed and sputtered, calling Eileen's attention as he slid down to the floor. She clenched his shirt, pushing him forward to the sparse cot against the wall.

"Oh no, no no no, Henry, stay with me...!" she whispered to him as she helped him slide crookedly onto the cot. He cried and choked in pain as she adjusted his body until it was comfortably on the bed. His back arched to combat it until he lost the energy and deflated.

"No," she gulped, keeping her gaze on his face, "See, you're safe now, we made it,"

Henry sputtered, spraying blood. Swallowing, Eileen tenderly lifted his hand from his side. Losing her breath, she gripped his bloody, slippery hand fiercely as she stared at the grim wound. It wasn't in an entirely fatal place, but Henry wouldn't last. Blood, dark and in complete contrast with his shirt, pooled around the wound and stained both sides, gleaming in the harsh light. The bullet had ripped right through him as though it was child's play. It didn't look like it had hit any bone, but Eileen had no idea if it was as bad as it looked or not. Judging by how swiftly Henry was fading, Eileen had to struggle to accept that this was worse. Not that she knew or anything.

She closed her eye and repeated that phrase in her head. That's right, she _didn't _know. She didn't know how bad it was. Maybe he just needed to rest.

Eileen opened her eye again and reinforced the vice-like grip she had on his hand when she saw the bullet wound again. His fingers twitched and closed around hers. There was some squeeze to it, but it wasn't very reassuring at all. Ignoring the blood on his hand, she brought it to her lips and closed her eye again.

"_God_, Henry," she whimpered into his hand. Pressing it to her face on the off-chance it would bring comfort to at least _one _of them, she muffled her resurfacing tears. Henry's clean hand shifted to cover the gruesome wound, more for Eileen's sanity than to stanch any blood. He winced quietly in poor substitute for speech, and she looked over at him.

His gaze was weak, but it was there and genuine and Eileen was terrified that it was going to be the last time she was going to see a sane person's eyes. The fear must've been easy to read on her face, because Henry struggled to speak, opening his mouth to reveal teeth stained orange from the blood. How had the blood gotten there? Did that mean that the bullet had hit a truly grievous organ, such as the lungs?

"No, no no, shh," Eileen silenced him as knots tied more knots in her stomach. Rising until she could sit on the cot next to him, she placed her hand against his cheek. "Henry, shh, it's all right."

She fought down a choke. That was stupid to say. Everything was not alright and they both knew it. That was entirely stupid. She was so stupid. So stupid.

_So stupid_.

She buried her face into his neck, fitting the bridge of her nose against his skin with practiced ease. His breath sharpened and ran irregular, which was surprisingly comforting to Eileen. At least he remained to be the most awkward man in the world. Being careful not to press too hard into his skin (for both their sakes, his stubble was sharp and prickly against the pink, raw flesh on her nose) Eileen sobbed quietly as the sharpness of his breaths weakened with each passing second.

"Don't die on me," she pleaded, "Don't die on me, don't leave me like this, I...I can't survive this without you I...,"

It was painfully obvious that her pleas were not anchoring him here with her, and she rose up to look at him in the eyes. He was struggling to stay awake, but his vision was obviously growing fuzzy.

"I-I was selfish! I was selfish, alright? When I didn't—no, from the beginning, I was selfish! I'm sorry! I really am! Just please don't...," Eileen choked and sobbed pitifully. She knew she didn't look pretty when she cried, her face puffed up and her skin blotched and the damn freckles on her nose she never really liked showed up like beacons in the night. Along with all that, she was still beaten to hell and she was starting to feel all the glaring pains she had gained from hauling Henry to safety. She felt god-awful, and meekness began to overtake her as Henry faded away.

"_Please_ don't die...Henry, please...," Eileen whispered to his increasingly still face. Her hand gripped the lapel of his shirt, kneading it gently. She audibly gulped down saliva, grateful that his chest still rose and fell against hers despite how slow and weak it was.

"Please don't die...,"

The cell was quiet save for Eileen's quiet sobs and Henry's very detached breaths.

Her body ached and began to scream at her. The cuts on her feet, especially, began to sting and shriek. She wouldn't be surprised if they became infected, looking at the floor of the cell and remembering whatever she recalled from the brief moment she was in the hallway. On the cell floor, she noticed, was a prisoner's shirt. It was colored grimly, and it reminded Eileen of various photos she'd seen of the victims of the Holocaust.

She contemplated for a moment, then slid away from Henry's still form, reaching down to pick up the shirt. Eileen frowned. It was a rather small little thing, and could only fit a child that hadn't even reached the age of twelve. Giving a quick, second glance around the concrete cell, she shuddered. What _was_ this place?

And why, why was it so familiar?

Her brain _knew_ she had never been here before. Hell, she'd never even been to any of the concentration or death camps she thought of earlier. Not even to a modern prison, though Eileen reflected that modern prisons were tens of times better than this. Probably. She didn't really know.

Brushing as much dust and dirt off as she could, she silently apologized to Henry for using such a dirty rag on an open wound, but she couldn't leave the thing to visibly bleed out anymore. Quietly whispering to him as if he could still hear her, she murmured various encouraging and motherly things as she carefully grasped the hem of his shirts. Gently rolling them up, Eileen eased the fabric up until they were just past the wound. Eileen gagged, and tried to hastily get used to staring at all the blood, marred skin and scrambled tissue. He was going to be okay. He had to be okay. Because this was too violent to be real. Too violent to be real.

Oh, but everything was so real here.

Balling the prisoner's shirt up, she tentatively dabbed at the blood before giving him a very improvised bandage. Henry grunted pathetically in his sleep, but he did not stir. Eileen smoothed the bandage out, dully watching as the prisoner's shirt slowly turned red. Her throat and chest burned from crying. Everything about her ached for some other place different than this. Eileen ran her fingers over Henry's soft belly, taking in an almost fastidious amount of detail. He was thin and tender, there were no defined muscles of any kind, wiry or body-builder. The only thing defining his stomach was a line of dark hair tracing his midriff, circling the inward-set belly button and traveling on to...other places. Eileen sighed lowly and rested her head delicately on his chest, keeping her face away from his and her fingers on his stomach. Tracing his skin absentmindedly, she became lost in thought.

It seemed years ago that she was sitting in her apartment, laughing at sitcoms in her room, doodling in her diary, talking to her friend on the phone about going to the party despite feeling rather horrible and trapped herself. A week before the party she was supposed to go to, she and her boyfriend had a brutal break-up. He had torn her heart to pieces and thus she left him, and though he was going to make an appearance at the party she still agreed to go—her friends were there and could support her if they decided to exchange some final bitter words. In reality, before the attack her confidence in her friends had been shaken anyways, and she didn't want to go to the party alone. The day she dropped her groceries in front of Henry's apartment was the day she contemplated asking him to the party. Not for any romantic reasons, no, she just wanted some outside protection and she felt that he could provide it if he agreed. She thought herself foolish soon after the thought; she only then noticed that she had not seen his face for just over four days at that point. _Probably was moving in with some other girl,_ she had thought at the time, _Most likely she has a better place than this apartment._

But then the noises came, and she decided to gather up the courage to ring his door bell anyways. If he answered, she'd ask him to the party, if not, then, well, she'd take up Richard's advice and call the super.

That was so long ago. She thought she had been broken and life was complicated then. It's true that she didn't know anything back then. Eileen would rather have a hundred miserable break-ups with boyfriends rather than go through this hell again.

She squirmed as Henry skipped a breath. _So selfish_. Her next door neighbor was dying underneath her cheek and hand, and she was fantasizing about past boyfriends and parties she would rather go to. Poor Henry didn't have an inkling of an idea how much she would give up to just get herself out of this place with no thoughts as to where he would end up. She wasn't giving a damn about him whatsoever—after all, why did she save him? To actually save his life and nurse him back to health, or to keep him as a toy wrapped around her finger, taking all the bullets for her and leading her through until she was alive again and could just leave him behind?

Maybe he did know. He had proven before that he listened and saw more than she ever thought he had paid attention to. It was incredibly possible that he very well understood how much she hated this place, how much she wanted to give away and how much she was going to give up just so she could live again, with _or_ without him. Maybe he understood how much he didn't matter in her eyes because it was all about her own survival, wasn't it? Walter's attack had turned her into a selfish, childish little girl, whining for milk and dependent on one single man to protect her against hordes of monsters and nightmares.

And yet he _still_ cared for her. He didn't even have to, but he _did_. Guiding her hand through the blood and gore, past the trauma and through the nightmare until it was hopefully over. What kind of life had Henry led that gave him such unbelievable amounts of altruism? Eileen had always found it easy for herself to care, but if she had seen many people die and one almost die, she would lose hope for survival and lag behind until she withered away. Hell, that's exactly what she was doing now, and would've died alone a long time ago had Henry not been there to pull her up onto her feet again.

Reveling in the warmth that his body still gave off, she turned her head until she faced him. What would she do and where would she be if he died now? What _could_ she do? She'd be waiting her turn in this abominable cell, waiting to die at the hands of the man in the coat. She couldn't _lose_ him at a time like this, they both shouldn't die after coming so far. He had guided her through everything and she had yet to return the favor to him—if he died now, she would never get that chance.

Then again, if it weren't for her, he would be curled up on the edge of the grated pathway, bleeding through the gaps of the metal links and slowly dying as Walter approached him to finish him off. Perhaps Walter would've kicked him off the edge so he would've fallen into the white abyss, falling forever until he died of blood loss. Perhaps he would've opted for a much more cruel death, shooting Henry in the foot, the knee, the elbow, the shoulder, and then finally the face. Eileen scrunched her eyes shut and whimpered at the vision. Pushing her nose into Henry's side, she wept quiet apologies to him for the gruesome pictures she imagined. The burned tip of her nose hated the cotton fabric of Henry's shirt, but she did not move. Physical pain was becoming so distant to her now that she faced the death of a friend.

_A friend_.

Jesus Christ, was that all he was? A title of 'friend' hardly described him. In fact, it was practically spitting on his feet to call him _just a friend._ But there was no other word Eileen could find that fit what he meant to her. Protector? Guardian? Those were all too concrete, too brick-like. They fitted a man who was there to fulfill an occupation, a man whose sole purpose was to guard. A man who was stone-cold and had the nerves and muscle of a rhino. Henry couldn't possibly be one of those. He was soft, remorseful, humane. In times of trouble he became utterly human, showing desperation and frantic thoughts about how to survive. About how _both_ of them would survive. Instead of protecting her because he had to, he protected her because he _cared_, he _wanted_ to protect her. No, he had to be something more, but no words could express it to her in her head.

_How about Receiver._

NO. Eileen dug her fingers into his stomach as her face scrunched up in anger and fear. _Those thoughts!_ Where were those thoughts coming from? Whimpering again, she pawed at Henry's shirt as if he could provide protection for her mind. Oh yes, she knew _exactly_ where those thoughts were coming from. But she wouldn't speak his name out loud.

"Henry...," she whined, high-pitched and frightened, "Please wake up, I'm...,"

_His name is Receiver._

_Receiver of Wisdom._

"I'm going to go insane...,"

–

_Why am I seeing red?_

_Is that the ceiling fan in my room?_

_Was this all really just a dream?_

_Wait._

_I thought I had left the fan on._

_Why isn't it moving?_

_I...am I really...dead?_

–

Hours, eons later, Henry could feel an irregular weight on his chest. He couldn't name it, nor could he bring himself to wake enough to see what it was that was moving with his breaths and yet pressing him down into the thin cot beneath him. It was more comforting than it was disturbing, and Henry made no attempt to push the weight off as he lied there.

Not that he could actually push it off if he wanted to. He felt immobile, and a dull pain wracked his body. Unable to shake it, he simply let it stir in his core, feeling the pain with each slow pump of his heart. He welcomed it, in fact. For he knew that he was dangling off of the bridge of life and the only thing that kept him certain of his life was his continued suffering. Then again, being in a place where suffering spanned multiple dimensions, he, in actuality, couldn't be sure he wasn't already dead.

A woman's voice spoke quietly to him, whispers of breaths or words that tangled together in worry. He wondered why it was speaking, and why it was worried over him. _Nobody_ had worried over him, not since the last time he had seen his aunt when he was four days away from his twelfth birthday. Nobody gave a damn about Henry Townshend, the man that nobody remembered to begin with. Twenty-seven years was a sufficient amount of time to get used to being forgotten, even with the one person who remembered you when you were a child. Nobody even remembered him when he disappeared, until of course strange noises started emitting from his room, or so he heard tell from his next-door neighbor.

His next-door neighbor.

_Eileen_.

So _now_ he was really starting to remember all that he had forgotten. He felt weak, _damn_ weak, but the memories trickled in, drop by drop as he slowly began to realize he was lying in a dank place, full of mildew and soaked, diseased smells. Yes, Eileen, the young woman living in the apartment next to his, the chipper, kind, caring woman who was one day going to go to the Peace Corps.

_How did he know that?_

The broken porcelain of her skin that spilled blood as she gurgled and writhed and drowned, and Henry falling to his knees into the pool of the blood she was sinking in. She had almost died, and now she doesn't want to go to the Peace Corps. Hell, maybe she _had_ died, though her physical body still walked and talked.

The pain in his side sent his brain on wildfire as the levee on his memories broke and suddenly he remembered _everything_. The gun shot, the sight of Eileen still there and in _danger_, and her fierce bravery (stupidity?) as she dragged him away from the man in the coat. But were they still in danger? What about Eileen, had she wandered off to find something to help them? Had Walter caught her while he was unconscious?

Henry tensed and stirred, forcing himself to choke down the pain as he fought to rise to the surface. The weight on his chest shifted, and soon he felt something—yes, a hand on his cheek, followed by blinding light as he opened his eyes, squinting in unfamiliarity. The light was too harsh, too bright, and Henry started to feel fear crawl up his throat. Was he dead? Was he really dead? Did he wake up into a reality he didn't want to wake up in? He struggled to speak, wanting to ask questions as to his whereabouts and if he really was as gone as he felt.

Eileen stroked Henry's cheek, eager that he was waking up but gently coaxing him to take his time. He seemed to be troubled by something as he woke, and sooner rather than later his eyes fluttered open, flinching against the bright light. For a moment his eyes roved frantically, as if to reassure himself of his surroundings and companion. He seemed to skip over her though, and she let him, gently pushing strands of his hair back until he finally seemed to calm down. Struggling to speak past far too many dams in her throat, Eileen gulped down saliva before opening her mouth.

"Hey...," Henry blinked, and finally rested his eyes on her. Her heart leaped into her throat and she found it hard to remember what she wanted to say, "How do you feel?"

"Awful," he gurgled after a while, still panting heavily. Eileen looked as though she was about to cry again as she ran her thumb over his jaw.

"Henry?" she asked, voice wavering. He looked at her and waited for her to gather up her voice again, but she was finding it hard to have the strength to explain that he shouldn't be alive. Glancing down at the bullet wound only seemed to prove it more. He _shouldn't_ be alive. Henry followed her eyes to stare at the scrappy bandage. She blinked, and turned away, concentrating as she meticulously rubbed her nails together, the purple nail polish flaking off with ease.

"Tell me," she finally said, "Tell me everything."

Henry spoke. His story was rickety at first, but the more comfortable he became the calmer he felt speaking to her. Eileen listened intently to every word he said, noticing that he never mentioned the names of the victims, though she doubted he would ever forget them. Protecting their dignity, perhaps. He seemed to be surprisingly emotional over everything, though the more he spoke Eileen noted that it was most likely that she was getting so used to his mannerisms that she could pick up on the subtle tints and shades of his tone. Sighing deeply, she continued to comprehend his words though they all started to blend together into a quiet drone that brought her tensions down from the high cliffs they were dangling from. It wasn't long until he finished his tale with a very hesitant recollection of finding what remnants of her remained after Walter had attacked her. After that, the two of them drifted into a heavy silence. Water trickled down a far corner of the cell, the bleached concrete dark and green as a result of how long the stream had been eating away at it. The constant sound of water was both borderline maddening and yet naturally cooling as they rested there, Eileen sitting on the edge of the cot, and Henry weakly lying on the thin mattress.

"I'm sorry," Eileen breathed, pain rising in her chest. Henry shifted to stare at her, but she didn't meet his gaze.

"I'm sorry I didn't notice earlier...," She trailed off and swallowed before continuing, "If I had realized you were stuck in your apartment then...,"

"I—," Henry interrupted, "It's okay...I'm used to it."

Eileen looked at him incredulously, wondering how he could ever get used to something as lonely as that. But she could tell that he wasn't lying, and she broke from his gaze to stare at her hand again. Her eyes drifted from her hand to the cast, and suddenly the pain in her chest sharpened until she found herself crying again. Burying her face in the heel of her palm, Eileen's shoulders shuddered as she broke down into uncontrolled sobs. What exactly triggered the breakdown, she didn't have any idea, nor did she know if it was ever going to stop despite her efforts to muffle the noise.

Henry's heart wrenched and he looked away as if that was going to give her space to cry. The more she cried the more guilt clawed its way into his lungs, and he winced. There had to be something he could do, something that would get her to hopefully calm down again. (Or at least, as calm as one could get in a hell like this.) Ever so carefully he tried to sit up, leaning against the near wall for support as his side blazed in impossible pain. He stifled a grunt and pulled his legs closer until another bolt of pain caused him to crumple. Throwing out a hand, he grabbed Eileen's shoulder to steady himself before he toppled down. Eileen shrieked and jumped, turning towards him.

"Oh no, Henry," she bubbled between sobs. Easing her good shoulder out of his hand, she gently wrapped her arm around his torso, gripping him as tightly as she dared as she lent whatever support she could offer, "Here, lay down, you shouldn't sit—,"

She was cut off, silenced as with one more shift Henry sat up straight, causing his chest to press against her face. The two of them froze, Eileen's fingers trembling insecurely against Henry's back. Henry wasn't sure what hurt more between the bullet wound, his broken tailbone, or the amount of heat that had rushed to his face the moment her nose and forehead tenderly brushed his chest. He squirmed, and was just about to shyly pull away when Eileen's fingers suddenly dug deep into his back. Pulling him close, she pressed her face harder into his chest. Her shoulders trembled again, and she resumed sobbing as though it were renewed at his touch.

Henry relaxed, tensed, then relaxed again. She wasn't going anywhere, and she damn well wasn't going to have him go anywhere either. And besides, this was what he was trying to do in the first place, wasn't it? That is, if this was really comforting her.

Shifting until his weary spine rested against the wall, Henry tentatively placed a hand on the small of her back, afraid to touch any other place. The red scars bridging over her shoulder blades barred him away, and anywhere else seemed too damaged or too intimate to place his hand. She had flinched, yes, but it was only minute, and she surprisingly allowed his hand to rest there without any trouble.

Eileen's tears seeped through his shirt as she huddled against him. Resting his head back, Henry let her cry. If she needed this so much that she was pawing at _him_ for comfort...well, then, she had never needed something more than this. Still, it seemed like an unexpected turn of events. It seemed only hours ago that she was choosing her steps carefully, keeping far away from him should he suddenly and unexpectedly turn on her. It wasn't that long ago that she batted his hand away when he was concerned over a new wound she had gotten. Henry wondered what had happened, what process her mind had gone through to end up at this conclusion.

He hurt. All over. He couldn't locate a part of him that _didn't_ hurt. And when she pressed herself to him he hurt even more. But he sucked it all in, for her sake. How long had he been out? How long had she, technically, been alone in this place? It wasn't the first time that he was knocked unconscious in this world and she was left to fend for the both of them, but it was the first that his life was truly in dire danger. Perhaps that's why she was clinging to him so desperately now. Henry had discovered that he was surprisingly hardy after all the bumps and bruises he had gotten, but even he knew that he was limited to so much life. That bullet should've done him in, but here he was, sitting up against the wall while Eileen huddled against him, weeping. Hell, even his tailbone didn't feel as hurt anymore. It was like he was waking up in his room again before he had started to escort Eileen through these nightmares. He shifted and uneasily stretched his muscles, relishing in some of the pain he had somehow lost.

Eileen's sobs had died down to a wavering whimper, though she still kept herself warmly pressed up against him. Curled up as much as her aching body would allow, she rested her forehead against his shoulder and breathed deeply, shuddering with each breath. The imaginary second hand of a clock ticked away in the silence, pacing their breaths together even though they were out of time with each other. Suddenly Eileen inhaled sharply and pulled back, lip quivering. Henry's hand fell from her back as he too retreated, slower and meeker than her.

"I'm sorry," she blubbered, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—are, are you hurt? I just...I couldn't hold it back...," she stared at him, her anxiety soon removed with an overwhelming sense of forlornness, "I guess...," He held the courage to stare back, probably only due to how exhausted he was.

Eileen was two steps short of astounded that he didn't turn uncomfortably away from her gaze, even when she kept hers on him. In truth she could barely see his eyes behind the matted curtain of hair that covered them, but she could see enough. They looked soft. Tired. Honest. Kind. She had a strong urge to reach out and brush his hair back so she could see them better, but she caught herself before she raised her hand. _No. Not a good move. You're not...close to him._

Eileen blinked at the thought. Henry tipped his head in small confusion at her, and she blinked again, multiple times before lightly shrugging it off as nothing. _Yes. Nothing. Nothing at all...just a fleeting thought._

She stole glances at him, trying to catch a better glimpse of his eyes.

Those fleeting thoughts weren't stopping.

–

Henry paced the short length of the cell many times until he felt okay enough to travel. Perhaps not in the best shape to fight, but there was no healing that. He hadn't been in the best shape to fight since the very beginning, anyways. Reluctantly, Eileen nodded in approval, gnawing on her lip as he placed his hand on the door. The axe was lost for now, unless by some unknown grace it was still out on the walkway and not in the great white abyss, they had to make do without it. He had mentioned that he had other weapons in his apartment, but none were as good as the axe. As well, he didn't remember there being a lot of holes around this world, and the nearest one that allowed for the least amount of contact with Walter was very far down the path.

"There's...one of those two-faced monsters out there," she warned just as he was about to turn the knob. Henry glanced at her to give her thanks, and cautiously opened the door. It wailed on its hinges, the noise barely drowning out the soft unmistakable whisper of the twin demons.

"_Receiver...,"_

Looking left and right, Henry jolted back just as a pale white hand slapped on the concrete, inches away from his nose. Pulling the fully-loaded gun from his waist, Henry shot the hand. The monster collapsed in pain, making an easy death as Henry put it out of its misery with one well-aimed stomp. Gingerly climbing over the corpse, they stepped out into the hallway, cautiously entering the next room. Other voices whispered in the halls though they couldn't see the owners, all proclaiming the same title the other one was. Henry grimaced and opened the next cell.

Growing fungi spun eagerly in their race to the top. Eileen gagged as Henry quickly and efficiently scanned the room to see if there was anything useful. Seeing that there was not, he turned and left with her, opening the next cell door just as another twin-faced demon spotted him around the corner. There was nothing there but a hole; the cot wasn't even soaked with blood as was the signal for Henry to progress last time he was there. If it weren't for the immediate danger in the hall, he would resort to peeking into the cell before he opened the door, but any rest was needed especially now that they were constrained to a limited supply of bullets for protection.

Telling Eileen to plug her ears for the upcoming gunshots earned him a _think that through again _look, but she obliged nontheless the best she could. Tensing in anticipation, she covered her one ear and waited as Henry squeezed the trigger.

The bullets sent enough recoil that when the monster started to charge it couldn't travel more than a few steps. By the time it fell it laid perfectly at Henry's feet. He ended its life, but he was not happy. That had taken too many bullets, and if they were to survive the rest of the way he would definitely need to conserve. That meant he couldn't take chances, and they would have to avoid more monsters than kill. Once upon a time, the option to not kill was the heavenly, moral option that he would've wished to take. Now, however, Henry's stomach turned at the thought.

Peering into the next cell door though there was one last whisper bouncing off the round walls, he dismissed the room and looked into the next room. A Holy Candle rested on the tiny desk. Entering and sticking the candle in his pocket, he kept Eileen behind him as he peeked around the central wall. He could just barely see an arm from another double-faced monster. He carefully shut the cell door and backed away into the room, looking at Eileen.

"There's no way I can get them all," he breathed, worried.

"What do you want to do?" she asked, sharing and understanding his concern.

Henry gazed out the tiny window in the door, "Run."

His voice was regretting it, but there was only way to escape. True, there could've been very useful items hidden in the cells, but their lives were worth more than the petty things he somehow knew he would find.

Eileen glanced around the dirty walls and spoke before he reached for the door, "Could this be that Silent Hill cult? The place where they kept all those kids locked up?"

He stared at her, somewhat afraid. Swallowing hard, he looked down at the floor.

"How...did you know?" he whispered, disturbed more by the truth than her. Eileen gestured gently to the splotch of blood on his shirt. The prisoner's shirt she had used as a temporary bandage was long since discarded as it wouldn't stay on if he moved, but she still sharply remembered how small it was.

"The shirt that I used...it was too small to even fit a teenager. And...and I guess there are other things that...helped me realize this," she muttered. Henry tried to passively get her to talk more, as it was clear she was not okay with half of what she was saying (and he didn't have head or tail of what her second statement meant) but she squished the links of the chain in the palm of her hand, the metal links chiming merrily in high contrast to the pained look on her face.

Henry hated himself for letting it go, but he turned to open the cell door anyways.

"How could they do this to children...," Eileen whispered angrily under her breath.

Softly shuffling into the hallway, they made their way to the exit as quietly as possible so as not to upset the last monster. The blaring sound of rushing water covered any noise they did make, and they reached the big metal doors without harm.

"Wait," Henry stopped, "He's out there."

"Yes," Eileen noted, staring at him, "Do you have another way out?"

He winced, "For me, yes. But...not for you. But you'd be safe! Until...I found a way to get you out...,"

It was obvious that he didn't sound sure, but Eileen paused and asked him to clarify. Describing the significance of the holes in the floors of the cell, Henry told her of the quick passage to the basement. Though she was interested and agreed that that was their most possible way out, she knew she wouldn't be able to follow him down. The staircase to the basement was her way out, but getting there was barred by Walter's presence just outside the door. Eileen chewed her lip as she thought, an unappealing taste of lipstick, blood, and flaked skin hitting her tongue as she did so.

"We don't know that the door to the basement is locked," she sighed in dismay, "Let's...Let's go there first,"

"I can't—,"

"Henry," Eileen interrupted him, placing her hand on his arm, "It'll be okay. Maybe...maybe you have nothing to worry about. Maybe you're safe"

Henry's face twisted as he whispered lowly, turning away from her, "I might be dead already...,"

She heard, and said nothing. The thought had crossed both their minds, _especially_ Eileen's as they struggled through the corrupted worlds. It would be such a release to know for sure if they were dead, because then all worries they had carried would dissipate as they would no longer matter. But if they were dead then this was most certainly Hell, and thinking about living eternity in this place was a torturous thought. If they both were still alive, though, the fight to stay that way seemed almost futile.

Knowing that there was no way to steel themselves for the cold winds outside, Henry wasted no time as he pushed against the heavy door. Cautiously stepping onto the pathway, they closed the door behind them just as calm footsteps approached. Eileen swerved to face Walter just as Henry tugged her back, grasping her firmly by the arm. Taking off at a stumbling run before Walter could aim at them, Henry led her down the winding pathway to where another set of identical double doors were placed directly below the last. Walter followed, as calmly as ever, always close enough behind them to instill panic and never too far away to give a false sense of security.

Pulling the heavy door open, they clambered into the second floor hallway, stopping only to pick a cell that didn't look like it was infested with monsters, and found small refuge in the cramped space. Eileen panted and sputtered, wincing and flinching until she sat herself down on the cot.

"Okay," she rasped, making a point to keep her feet off of the floor, "I-I can't do that."

Henry grimaced at the thick blood dripping from the soles of her feet, splatting stiffly on the floor. That was too harsh for her, but there was nothing else he could do. If she had kept her heels, she would be tripping and falling so much that Walter would've caught up to him. But now because she had discarded them, she wasn't able to run on the grated pathways due to gritty metal cutting into her skin.

"And now we're stuck," Eileen muttered before cursing. Giving her a sympathetic gaze, Henry waited, desperately trying to devise a different escape route that didn't exist. Breathing hard to fight back the pain, Eileen uneasily lowered her feet, resting the very edge of her heels on the cool concrete.

"I don't suppose you have any shoes back at your apartment," Eileen said, half-laughing through her nose before wincing again, "Size eight, womens?"

Henry shook his head, taken aback and a little nervous at the question though it was obvious the answer would be no anyways. Eileen smiled despite his answer, and looked down at her calloused, bloody feet, tentatively stretching her toes. Spreading the pain out by gently rocking her heels back and forth, she was about to invite him to sit beside her if she wanted when the back of her heels brushed against something.

"Henry," she whispered urgently. He perked his head, alert as she continued, "There's something underneath the cot,"

Ever so slowly she lifted her feet, easing them up until she folded her legs in front of her. Henry dropped down to his knees, reaching his hand under the bed. Eileen warned him to be careful, as there was too little light to see and it could've literally been anything underneath there. Groping blindly in the dark, Henry sniffed as he grasped something smooth and sharp. Sliding it out from under the cot, he rose to his feet, wiping the blade of the Sword of Obedience with the cleanest corner of his shirt.

"What's something like that doing there?" Eileen asked, unfolding her aching legs. He shrugged in response, holding it in his left hand. It would become useful soon, he knew, and at the moment he didn't care where he had found it or why it had been in one of the kid's cells.

"How much farther is the basement?" she ventured as Henry peered out of the small window. He answered, it was just another sprint like the one they just had, and though he tried to sound reassuring there wasn't much to add to the truth that would make it seem any better. Still, Eileen nodded, and stood up, tottering a little as she exhaled through her teeth. Henry asked if she was really ready to go out again, but she simply, somewhat bitterly confirmed that she could never be better in this state, and waited for him to open the door.

He reluctantly obliged, stepping quietly out into the hallway to avoid any other two-faced monsters, and carefully turned the handle to the outside.

The door swung open and Walter's grimy hand grabbed Henry by the neck. A scream caught in his throat and Henry choked as Walter pulled him forward, the butt of his gun jamming into Henry's bullet wound. He gurgled and cried as pain blotted out his vision, and as he crumpled Walter flung him out into the cold air. Crashing onto the grated walkway, he heard Walter cackle in delight. Coughing and sputtering, Henry's head swam with various curse words and pleas. Unable to get up, he floundered on the grating as Walter approached, guns in hand.

"You...you...you _motherfucker!_" Eileen screamed in rage. Walter's face contorted in confusion, and he turned on his heel.

"How could you speak about Mother that way?" he yelled, pained by her word, "You...You _are_ the Mother Reborn! How _could_ you?"

The chain clinked in an almost bloodthirsty manner as it whipped his face. Walter recoiled and Eileen charged.

"_Leave him the hell alone, you son of a bitch!"_ she roared, driving him away from Henry, whipping the chain furiously. The chain back-lashed at her, clipping and bruising her chin, but she shrugged it off in her rage. One of the guns in Walter's hand discharged and ricocheted off the side of the building, mercifully missing both Eileen and Henry.

Chased to the edge of the walkway, Walter's feet were scraping along the edge of the grating, threatening to drop off into the white abyss. Face bloody from Eileen's assault, it looked as though he was about to be beaten off the edge when, in one smooth motion, Walter brandished the butt of his gun and struck Eileen across the face. She screamed and stumbled backwards, caught by the neck before she fell. Bringing her close to his gruesome face, he sneered and spat blood in her eye. Eileen, struggling helplessly against the firm grip he had on her soft neck, returned the favor. He growled and dug his fingers into her flesh, causing her to wince and choke though she did not regret her actions.

"Mothers aren't supposed to be that way," he chastised with a snarl. Eileen blinked the blood and saliva out of her eye and glared at him.

"I'm _not_ your fucking _mother_," she rasped in hate, "And _he_ isn't your goddamn Receiver, whatever the _hell_ that is,"

Walter's face darkened until he looked more devil than human, and Eileen's legs trembled and threatened to give way as he closed his hand around her, pulling her toward the edge. Paying no heed to Henry, he growled in her ear, his rotten breath wrinkling her nose as he spoke.

"You have to _learn_ how a Mother acts, and I will show you," His eyes gleamed in long-anticipated glee, "I am _going_ to show you,"

Eileen gurgled, and though she was trying to sound fierce tears were streaking down her cheeks as she felt some unknown, black force prodding against the will in her mind. She squirmed and cried, flailing until she found the grating beneath her feet again. Clinging to the walkway with her toes as though it was warm, soft grass, Eileen steadied her weight, snarled one last profane insult, and shoved.

Whatever was trying to get into her mind retreated in fright, and Walter teetered over the edge until he toppled. The grip on her neck only intensified, and she felt her body follow his down into the abyss until two arms wrapped around her waist. The fingers fell from her neck as the arms pulled backwards, causing her to tumble and roll in confusion until she found herself panting shrilly on the walkway, Henry's arms gripping her as though _she_ were the lifeline as he coughed beside her.

"Henry?" she asked to reaffirm he was there as she struggled to retain her senses, falling down from the adrenaline rush the rage gave her and tumbling back into her own abyss of despair. His arms squeezed around her, this time much more reassuring than could be possible as she continued to cry.

"Oh god...,"


	22. Chapter 22

_DEAR GOD THIS CHAPTER. Actually this world. It's boring. Also I had to rush to get this done. Little editing, and you can tell that I was working on this at a fast pace. I didn't want to continue the trend of "Oh a ghost is appearing let's end the chapter" but to get this posted for you guys before I can't post anything for about 2 and a half weeks, I continued the trend. Bwahahaha! Fear me! Fear me!_

_(I had time to work on this and finish this much earlier. Why didn't I? Three words: Samurai Warriors 3. Yup.)_

* * *

**Chapter 22**

Henry stood in dismay in the cold wind, the small straps of Eileen's shoes tangled in his fingers. There was no sign of the rusty axe, and his best guess as to its whereabouts was the white abyss below him. Sighing heavily, he kept close to the cement walls of the prison as he returned to where Eileen was waiting just outside the second floor doors. She grimaced as he approached empty-handed, eying the shoes in his hand in suspicion.

"That's all you found?" she asked, more out of politeness as she knew exactly that what he was holding was all that he had. Henry nodded, almost regretfully. Eileen copied the sigh he had made only moments before, "I suppose the shoes are somewhat important."

Henry nodded again, aware of the prevalent gooseflesh on Eileen's arms. Shivering, she gestured to move onward, moving at a slow pace. Matching her tentative steps, Henry watched her bare feet carefully tread on the sharp steel rings, keeping careful note every time her toes flexed in pain to the tune of her sharp breaths. Behind her heels there was a barely visible path of blood marking her steps. She clung to his sleeve, hobbling almost akin to an old woman. Many times he had offered to stop for her to rest, but she refused them all until they finally passed through the first floor doors.

Sliding gratefully down to the cool floor, she watched in tired interest as Henry took care of the slugs polluting the walls, one by one. Trembling from the cold, she dug her numb fingers into her armpit, letting the chain slip away from her arm, piling onto the floor next to her. Keeping the bottoms of her feet up and away from the harsh floor, she bit her tongue and lip fiercely to redirect the pain. Flinching slightly as Henry quietly placed her shoes and the Sword next to her, she up looked at him, muttering a soft thanks.

As she rested, Henry tested the knob to the basement with a tight grimace. It wouldn't budge. Eileen caught the grimace in the corner of her eye and quietly cursed again.

"Now what?"

Henry put his back to the locked door though the air on the other side of it made the hair on his neck stand on end and contemplated, "I'll go back, and unlock the door from the other side. You stay here. It's...safe here."

Eileen gazed at him sadly, telling him silently that she knew how ridiculous his last statement was before she ducked her head into the relative comfort of her arm. He thought he could hear a small whimper from her, but he wasn't certain. Slightly exasperated from the burden of their situation, he rubbed the back of his neck, massaging the sore muscles before releasing a breath.

"There's a hole here," He told her softly, gesturing to the wall that was still blank as ever to her, "I can get some bandages for you," Eileen nodded at where he gestured and wrapped herself up in her aching limbs, warding off whatever cold she could. Henry gazed sympathetically at her, and climbed into the hole.

–

He woke up screaming in pain, red searing his vision. Rolling from the bed onto the floor, he breathed through his teeth as the pain receded the farther away he was from his closet. Peeking over his bed, he stared in shock and wonder as the shadow of a small boy stood in his closet. Nervously glancing behind and around him to reassure himself that the shadow did not have a body with it, Henry shakily stood up, watching as the boy moved, reaching up for something. The voice of a child cried out in song, play, terror and mourning as the shadow moved, causing chills to slither down his spine.

Fishing the Holy Candle out of his pocket, Henry grappled with the bedside table for some spare matches. Striking it so hard it snapped in his hand, he cursed and held the broken tip gingerly as he struck again. He didn't want to waste any matches when there was no possible way to regenerate what he had. The head of the match lit in a bright flame that he quickly transferred to the Candle before he dropped the match on the floor. Sucking tenderly on his fingers, he stamped out the match before it spread, and approached the shadow boy.

Though the specter didn't have eyes Henry could _feel _it staring at him as he approached, _feel_ its unseen eyes settling into his soul as it glared and hissed at him, he who held the thing that would end its life. The Candle's white flame gleamed and the shadow child cowered. A faint whimper resonated from the apartment walls and for a split second Henry felt deeply guilty. Then, with a silent blink, the shadow was gone and the whimpering the walls ceased. The Candle's wax poured over Henry's fingers, but it was surprisingly cool and soothing as the wick slowly ran out with the wax. He wiped his hand on his pants, staring into his now empty closet. It almost felt lonely now, without the shadow boy there to dance.

He shook his head vigorously. Stop. That was maddening to think about.

Opening the chest in the living room, Henry dug out the dented baseball bat, weighing it in his hands. His heart sank that he had to use this instead of the axe, but there was no choice in the matter. It was either that or the golf clubs he had gathered, and after his many encounters he had determined that the golf clubs would almost be much too fragile—they would probably break from the force he would use on them.

Setting the bat to the side, Henry sat on the sofa and carefully rolled up his shirts, pulling back the stained fabric until he could clearly see the bullet wound.

He bit his lip to keep from crying in shock and forced the shirts back down. The blood was still there. The bullet wound was not. All that remained in its place was a grisly scar, white, pink, and old. _How _and _why_ he did not know, nor did he want to. He survived. That was good enough for him. Good enough, except that he couldn't help but feel he was _cursed_ because of it. The more he saw the white and pink skin in his head the more he felt so, sick to his stomach at the idea.

_What if he couldn't die?_

It's true that he didn't want to die now, but if, for some bizarre reason, he was incapable of death? Incapable of escaping this hell, unable to wrench himself free of this cage of terrors. And if he did escape, could he die then? Out in the real world, watching the days pass him by as an immortal amongst men. But the bad kind of immortal. The one that would remain forever bedridden as his body would age but he himself would not die. _How he hated the thought!_ Henry had barely a place in the real world as it was; to force himself to remain in the niche that never fit him right in that world was a torture beyond hell. He had little to no purpose in the real world. He _wanted_ the ability, no, the _right_ to die.

Perhaps he could test it out now. It would just take one simple bullet to test if he would survive the truly impossible. It would at least put his mind at ease to know the answer. The gun itself was still in his waistband, easy access, easy use.

_Stop!_

_That isn't what you want!_

_Moreover...it's the last thing she needs._

Henry pulled his hand away from the hilt of the gun and clenched his fingers into a fist, hearing the knuckles pop softly. Standing up, he forced every drop of thought, good or bad, from his mind as he noticed a red sheet of paper tucked under his door.

_I'm going to summarize everything I've learned about Walter Sullivan so far._

_He was born right here in room 302 of "South Ashfield Heights." His parents abandoned him soon afterwards and disappeared somewhere, leaving the baby alone. He was discovered and sent to St. Jerome's Hospital. He was "adopted" by "Wish House", an orphanage in the forest near Silent Hill that's run by the secret Silent Hill religious cult. When he was six years old, someone from the cult showed him where he was born._

_Since then, he started to believe that room 302 itself—in other words, this room—was his mother. Every week, he traveled from the orphanage to South Ashfield Heights, a pretty long trip for a kid his age. Sometimes he took the subway, and sometimes the bus._

_I'm tired. My headache is already killing me. I'll write more tomorrow._

_July 28_

Henry delivered the note to the scrapbook in his room, turning to the closet. Easily reaching up to the top shelf, he grabbed the bulk of a simple, warm blanket and pulled it down. It was cheap and had a hole in one of the corners, but it was comfortable. He dusted it off before wrapping it in his arms. Picking up the bat as he wandered back out into the living room along with the last of the bandages he could scrap from the first aid-kit, he climbed back into the hole.

He could accept that there were answers to questions he would never learn. That was fine with him. Just as long as he still had his willpower to resist the curiosity that would kill this cat, he was fine.

He only hoped Eileen could endure and keep her own willpower if she was struggling just the same as him.

–

She obviously wasn't asleep, but she was trying her damndest to at least send her mind elsewhere; eyes shut tightly as she shivered against the cold dampness. Perking her head at his arrival, her eye widened at the bundle of fabric in his arms. He gulped awkwardly and averted his eyes after offering her the blanket. Eileen closed her fingers slowly around the blanket, watching his expression in small wonder.

"You...didn't have to do that," she said as the blanket fell away from his arms, "You won't even want this back,"

"It's okay...," Henry murmured, thinking of all the ruined boxes and clothes thanks to his bloodied dryer. One more item of his ruined wasn't much to him. For some time now he had been thinking that starting completely over—if he ever got out of here—was a very appealing option. He watched her struggle to swing the blanket around her thin, bruised shoulders with her one arm, tentative. Twisting her back, she had just managed to draw the other side over her collarbone when a corner slipped from her hand and fell down her arm. Moving on reflex, Henry picked up the fallen corner of the blanket and gently rearranged it. Eileen let him, drawing the blanket tighter around her curled form.

Mildly scared, Henry slid the bandages out from under his arm and quietly muttered that they were for her feet. Shifting and wincing slightly, Eileen slid her feet out, stretching them so the soles shone red in the light drifting in from the outside. He hesitated, then started to gingerly wrap her feet in the bandages.

She sucked in her breath and gritted her teeth, fighting back the sharp pain as his hands wrapped the cloth around her feet. Every now and then one of his fingers brushed along the bridge of her feet, the pads of his hands newly rough and unpleasant against her skin. They were quiet in lieu of the unseen tension, their odd silence only broken by Eileen when she requested that he tied a little tighter. Henry felt aloof and out of place, a stand in for the prince putting the glass slipper on the princess's feet; though if he thought about it harder he was more in place than out. He was the farthest from a prince, and the soon-to-be skuzzy bandages rightly replaced the glass slippers. Eileen was perhaps still a princess, though what she was princess of was most likely something rotten and unflattering, seeing her current situation. Not only that but she would now be left alone without a bodyguard, as princesses seldom—if ever—are.

No, he and she, they were just two people. Two normal, out of reach people that were stuck in a hell that belonged to neither of them but punished both of them. He stood up.

Her feet disappeared under the blanket as she pulled it close around her jaw, "I wish I could follow you, I really do," She adjusted the fabric and hid most of her face away in it as her voice dropped to near inaudible volumes.

"I don't want to be alone here...,"

Henry backed until he was at the door leading outside. Fighting himself in his head, after what seemed like an eternity of his hand hovering over the door knob he finally managed to choke out a promise that he'd be back, as soon as possible. He could feel that there were more weight to her words than would be normally expected, and he _knew,_ just _knew_ somehow that leaving her alone was sentencing her to insanity.

He stole a quick glance back at her before he opened the door to the cold wind. Eileen watched him go. When the door slammed the room got darker somehow, and she felt a heavy weight press on her head from all sides. She dipped her nose into the soft folds of the blanket and inhaled lightly.

It smelled like Henry.

She let her muscles relax.

–.

The cold wind, harsher than he remembered it, bit into his skin as he grabbed the red ladder to the door's side and climbed up. The rungs were metal and freezing, and Henry found his hot hands sticking to the ladder as he climbed. Each time he pulled his hand away a piece of his flesh stuck, and he had to jerk it away to detach it from the rung. A fleeting worry of frostbite crossed his mind as he clambered onto the roof of where Eileen was, but he pushed that away as he grabbed the next ladder and climbed it with similar results.

Walter wasn't in his immediate sight, but that didn't leave Henry any less careful as he climbed the tallest ladder up to the third floor. He hesitated before peeking his head out into the walkway, heart pounding louder the more he waited. Finally he pulled himself up onto the walkway and reached for the door knob.

Maybe it was just his imagination, but he swore he heard a gun click close by. Without pausing to look he swung the door open and leaped into the hallway of the third floor. Greeted by the distanced voices whispering his title of "Receiver", Henry drew a mental map in his head and counted the doors to where the bloody bed was. A twin-faced demon was guarding the door, and charged him as he rounded the cells. Swinging the bat just in time, Henry swatted the faces to the side, causing it to flinch and stop its charge. Hitting it a few more times until it collapsed, he crushed the approximate area of its neck with his foot, opening the door to the cell before the last remaining voice could discover what had happened to its companion.

Bright light and the bloody bed greeted him, pointing him to the hole in the middle of the floor. Henry jumped and prayed he would land well. His prayer was only slightly answered as he toppled onto a lunchroom table, rolling off and onto the concrete floor. Choking and wincing, he let himself lay there as he caught his breath again before standing up.

Draped across one of the benches was a single, silver Saint Medallion. Picking it up and hanging it around his neck and down his shirt, Henry ignored the ceiling-reaching tentacles blocking one of his pathways, and turned to the door with the keypad. It was still unlocked from before, and Henry easily opened the door and stepped into the foul-smelling room. Various rusty torture instruments and saws still hung from the walls, and the smell of death permeated the already rank room. The only difference from before was the absence of Andrew DeSalvo's body, though his blood still remained in the pool of water. There was also a prisoner's shirt laid out to dry on the central platform. Henry gingerly inspected it, noticing smooth wax letters on the back of the shirt. With the dim light and the wax matching the color of the fabric, he couldn't make out what the words said. If he dipped it in a sort of dye he could see, but he didn't have any dye with him, not even back at the apartment.

Though...the smell of this room reminded him of his own bathroom, and in his bathroom was a tub full of sticky red blood. It was horrific to think about, but the blood could play substitute for the dye. Either way, he needed to get to a hole, and Eileen was waiting for him. He tucked the shirt under his arm, careful to not break the wax on it, and left the room, taking care of the tentacles and stepping out into the foyer in the basement.

A sort of curiosity drew him to the ladder that served as the aorta of the entire prison, and he climbed it to the top, scanning the floors for anything useful. There was nothing, nothing but a fondly used nightstick leaning against one of the desks. It was light, and surprisingly it seemed rather maneuverable with a tether on the end to be wrapped around the wrist. He wouldn't find such a weapon useful—even with the axe gone—but Eileen, she would benefit from it. The chain was a formidable whip, but with as inexperienced with a whip as she was, it was more detrimental when it meant to be helpful. The clipped bruises on her chin from it were proof of that. This would be better for her in many ways. He wrapped the tether around his wrist and descended again, back to the spiral hallway.

It was eerily quiet save for the disgustingly wet noises the rising tentacles gave to the hall. Henry tried his best to ignore the silence and how unnatural it seemed and the hairs that stood on end as he passed through with relative ease, but the quiet was heavy and menacing. Something was hiding behind it, he knew. He could _feel _it.

Flicking the lock in the other direction, he tried not to shiver as the clicking sound resonated in his ears. Turning the knob, he slowly, so as not to scare her, entered the room where Eileen was waiting for him.

At first her head did not stir from the blanket chaotically wrapped about her, but she soon lifted her head and blinked her weary eye at him. She must've been asleep, which was something of a surprise to Henry considering that was reportedly the last thing she wanted to do in this world. He wouldn't lie, though, even with the rest she got she looked much more terrible than when they began. More terrible to the point that Henry would say there were things happening to her that he didn't know about while he was gone.

His heart took off at breakneck speed as his brain followed with horrific thoughts that egged his heart on. Taking in a deep breath and holding it, he stifled the storm his head was feeding, for once grateful when Eileen started to make conversation.

"Did you find anything?" she asked, fighting back a yawn.

"N-Not much," Henry replied, failing to kill the stutter, "Just...these."

He showed her the shirt and explained what he needed to do at his apartment, and handed her the nightstick. She took it thankfully; the chain nipped at her skin when it was wrapped around her arm, and was generally an uncomfortable weapon though effective. Wrapping the tether around her wrist twice (as opposed to Henry wrapping it only once around his own wrist), Eileen gave him a look of shielded hurt just before he briefly entered the hole again. It wasn't quite the reunion Henry was hoping for, but it was perhaps the better one. He couldn't believe that he would've wanted more emotion from her in the first place—he handled emotion so poorly that it would've been wasted anyways. And yet, he couldn't help but yearn to see her face brighten every time he returned to her. It was reassurance. Reassurance that she still had hope, and by her having hope then he had hope too.

Above that, she was still very pretty through the scars, bandages and bruises; even prettier when she at least dropped some of the despair that seemed to be in everyone's eyes nowadays.

–

Henry's apartment was as quiet as the hallways as he woke up on his bed. Holding his breath, he entered the bathroom and retched at the hideous smell. Never realizing that he was shaking until he saw the fabric of the prisoner's shirt shudder uncontrollably, Henry covered his nose and mouth with one hand, and dipped the shirt in the blood-filled tub with the other. Pressing it down into the thick liquid, he averted his watering eyes as he swished the shirt in the pool of blood. His stomach bucked and threatened something ugly to happen as he dragged the shirt out, rank blood dripping from the sleeves. Still covering his face, Henry spread the shirt out until he could read the words that spread from shoulder to shoulder all the way from neck to waist.

_My room is on the 2nd floor and I had to drink something with black things in it. I hid the sword with the triangle handle under my bed. That guy, the fat one, took the basement key. Next time I'll stick this triangle sword into that pig and take the key._

His stomach bucked again and Henry left the shirt in the bathroom as he stumbled out to the kitchen sink, dry-heaving as hot tears rolled down his cheeks. Turning the knobs on the sink so the faucet soon thundered with water, he washed the rotting blood off of his arm the best he could, choking and retching as bile crept up his throat.

After he calmed down he stood there and thought, contemplating the note on the shirt. It sounded like the child was talking about Andrew, and if that were true, Andrew then held the key to their escape on the lowest floor of the building. He coughed and rubbed his stomach tenderly, grimacing as he spat whatever bile had escaped into the sink.

The Sword the child had kept was with Eileen. Along with the Saint Medallion, Andrew should be subdued fairly easily, or at least, as easy as all the others. Henry hated the thought, but he seemed to start to get used to this. Coughing a few more times just to make sure everything was over with, he clambered back into the hole to find Eileen.

–

"What did the shirt say?" she asked as he reappeared. Henry stiffened and told her quickly about the man who had died here, and his ghost that they were bound to meet. Picking up the Sword of Obedience next to her, he watched a little helplessly as she put her shoes on again, her expression mildly disgusted and frustrated.

Her feet were swollen and the addition of bandages didn't help, but she was stubborn enough to shove her foot into the shoe, buckling the strap so it was as loose as possible. Even then the strap pressed uncomfortably into her skin, the flesh on her foot and heel puffing out on either side of the strap, pink with rashes. When she stood up she inhaled a cry of pain, turning it into an exasperated gurgle until she found her balance, albeit shakier than before thanks to the cuts, bandages, and the now far-too-small shoes. Henry was genuinely impressed that she had forced the shoes to fit again, and also very worried that things were worse than they were before.

"I could...I could go back and get some shoes for you, if you want," he said earnestly, not hiding the concern in his voice. Eileen pressed her hand against the wall to keep her upright and blew a lock of hair away from her eye.

"Thank you, Henry, but...I want you to stay here," she panted softly, letting the blanket that was still draped around her shoulders fall to the floor, "Until you have to go back."

"But—,"

"Until you _have_ to go back."

Henry nodded reluctantly and she stumbled up to him, "Sometimes you go to your apartment for one thing, and it feels...Feels like an eternity here. Sometimes I wonder if you're...if you're ever coming back."

Henry looked at her, shocked. She was telling the truth, he could tell. Holding out her hand, she waited for him to take it. He wanted to give her hand a squeeze to reassure her that whatever she was thinking wasn't true, but, damn him, he couldn't find the courage. He could take down ghosts and mutant dogs and hideous forms of being, but he couldn't even squeeze her hand, so small within his own.

Someday. Maybe. If they ever got out of this. If she ever wanted to see him again after this.

Keeping her hand in his, he led her to the door of the spiral hallway, allowing her to go first before following close after. The silence he had heard before had been completely crushed. Somewhere in the hallway were the mindless echoes of a man's voice babbling incoherently, on and on with no stop. The voice was uneasily familiar to Henry, and it only took a little bit of concentration to recognize it as Andrew's, still injected with hysterical fervor, but with a sort of happy insanity that could only have come posthumously. Henry let go of Eileen's hand and held her shoulders instead to keep her close as he escorted her quickly down the stairs. The echoes made it hard to pinpoint where the ghost was, and all Henry could think about was the voice of a child speaking over and over and over in his head: _Next time I'll stick this triangle sword into that pig and take the key. Next time I'll stick this triangle sword into that pig and take the key._

They rounded the cylindrical center once and saw a heavy, shirtless man hovering in mid-air seconds before he curled into a ball and barreled into them, flattening them both on the floor. Henry heard something crack, but didn't feel any pain. Eileen's scream was muffled by Andrew's very loud, jabbering nonsense. The Saint Medallion against Henry's chest buzzed like mad, weakening quickly and dangerously as the ghost floated just above them.

_Next time I'll stick this triangle sword into that pig and take the key._


	23. Chapter 23

_Happy Halloween! We are FOREVER DONE WITH WATER PRISON I'm so happy.  
_

_I hardly believe that one could have a violent seizure and just so easily stand up afterwards, but let's just pretend Henry is Hercules or something._

_...Hmm wait no that's not going to work. He hasn't really gone through the training montage set to Danny DeVito singing yet._

_(I really wish the game would've elaborated on Eileen's discovery of Richard's ghost more)_**  
**

* * *

**Chapter 23**

Andrew's ghost had the face of a wronged jester. Deep gashes in his cheeks forced his mouth into an eternal smile, the dark blood crusting the edges crumbling down his chin as he spoke. There were no pupils or irises to grace his eyes, stripping him of what used to make him look human. His skin was pale and clammy, similar to Cynthia's but with a disturbing air of mildewed moisture about it. There was a rank smell of dead fish stinging their nostrils as Andrew hovered above them, amplifying the stark numbers in his gut with a clear portrait of his death.

Henry squirmed though he felt as though he had just been run over by a truck. Dragging himself to his feet, he scooped up what little he could of Eileen's limbs. She shuddered and moaned in pain, trying to get up with him despite the difficulties. The ghost's voice blathered on above them, and the more they listened the more they realized that he was reciting scriptures. Not the familiar scriptures they had both grown up with, no. Scriptures from the awful cult residing in the small, unassuming town of Silent Hill. Demon scriptures, things that shouldn't be uttered no matter what language it was written in. Eileen began to scream in response to the unnatural words, stumbling along with Henry though her damned swollen feet were dragging. Andrew's voice got louder as they staggered away, and the Saint Medallion hummed viciously in return.

Pulling the pistol from the waist of his pants, Henry turned back as they fled, pointing it at the fat ghost. Even with his aim, it would not be hard to miss in the narrow hallway. Squeezing the trigger, he unleashed two shots; one to see if it would hit and affect the ghost, and two to squeeze an extra hit in perchance the last one did work.

Andrew did fall to the ground, but it seemed to be far more controlled and less of a collapse than Henry wanted. The ghost curled itself up into a tight ball, almost reminiscent of a fetal position, and sat there, his voice silenced for the time being. Though they still tottered along, Henry had slowed down, curious as to whether or not the ghost was, for the time being, defeated. Eileen paused to look back too, uneasily dancing back and forth on her high heels.

Suddenly Andrew cried out and barreled forward, still curled up in a ball and charging towards them, as though this were a twisted bowling alley. Henry grabbed Eileen and flattened her against the floor, flinching as the fat ghost swept overhead.

"_Go, go, crawl, crawl!_" Henry yelled over the returned vigor of Andrew's voice. Eileen sobbed, wanting to protest but not finding the will to, and obliged the best she could, letting the nightstick drag on the floor as she reached her arm out and pulled her body forward. Ugly flashbacks took her back to apartment, memories of dragging herself with her unbroken arm across the carpet now slick with blood, dragging desperately away from the man who _was_ going to kill her, right then, right there, in her apartment, her home, her solace. Frightened tears began to scroll down her face as she dug her cracked nails into the pavement, using whatever was left of her might to escape the poor departed soul above her. Her muscles were freezing and her breath was running short; she could not see anything but the floor of her apartment, she wasn't going to make it.

Henry must have been able to sense her tension because he touched her arm, warmly but firmly. Part of her hated him for this, for now he could clearly feel that she was trembling without control from the effort and fear. Andrew made another pass above them and she screamed, hitting her head on the pavement to avoid him. Henry reinforced his touch, and she looked to him.

He said no words, but his eyes, barely hidden by the thick carpet of messy hair, told her that she was able to get through this. She shook her head violently at him, but he merely tugged at her arm softly, careful not to throw her off balance. Gulping down whatever doubt she could, she reached out again, screaming through gritted teeth as her broken arm was crushed between the floor and her ribs. Somehow Henry was able to scramble ahead of her, dragging the Sword with him. There was no yellow flame to be found anywhere around the sword, not even a faint hint of a glow. Eileen's stomach squirmed. _What if that Sword didn't work?_

His shoes disappeared around the curve and Eileen blurted before she could catch herself, so desperate that it surprised her, "_Please_...don't leave me all alone!"

Goddammit, did she have to beg? She was practically on her knees right now, even lower, in fact, and he already _knew_ she hated being alone here, from the very start. Was she becoming a companion he despised? She _did_ drag him down so very often, she wouldn't be surprised if he would suddenly just leave her behind and wish her good luck.

_But the blanket, the blanket he didn't have to give...that has to count for something!_

The heavy ghost yelped long and sorrowfully, signifying another attack. Eileen ducked down again, covering her head with her arm. Two gunshots fired and a rough hand grabbed her wrist and tugged her upward. Her heart pounded like wildfire when she saw Walter's stringy blonde hair before her, bordering his greasy, blood-splattered face. Shrieking, she wrenched her arm away though his grip only tightened. He yelled at her, but she didn't want to hear it, didn't want to hear some bullshit garbage about her being some sort of "Mother Reborn" or whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. He tugged again, pulling her forward to a dance she did _not_ want to be a part of, and he yelled again. She was going to spit at him, going to roar back and fight and scream and scratch and if given the chance dig her heel into his toes when something clicked about the voice. It wasn't devoid of emotion, and it wasn't lusting for anything, much less anything about her. It was desperate and scared, a plea rather than an angry shout. She blinked, and looked again.

Henry panted in front of her, cold sweat sticking his hair to his face. Gasping in a few breaths, she had no time to apologize as he pulled her forward again, this time with her stumbling forward to follow him. Five long strides for him and several more limps for her and they were at a door, and suddenly they were through it and the ghost's voice faded into nightmares.

As soon as they were through Henry let go of her hand and collapsed to his knees, breathing harshly. The Sword and aluminum baseball bat were near them, laid in disarray as if he had simply chucked them in before turning around to come back to help her. Eileen closed her eyes and swallowed, chastising herself. Opening them again, she examined the room.

It was as big as the entire prison in diameter and made of the same cold stone. The ceiling disappeared into darkness, suggesting an endless ascent though she knew that they weren't that far down from the floor before this one. Massive gears and wheels poked through a hole in the floor, starkly lit by one bright light that cast long, eerie shadows in the otherwise dark room. There was only one door, and it bore the red symbol of the cult, signifying their exit. The only thing they needed was the key, and that was in the cold dead fist of the ghost behind them.

Eileen slid down to her seat next to Henry and quietly wept.

Henry looked at her and opened his mouth as though he wanted to speak, but all that came out was a mere squeak, and he looked away. He wanted ask what had happened to her, what she had seen in place of him at the last moment, but he couldn't. That was her business. She glanced at him as he uneasily found interest in his hands, and the feeling of misery dug deeper into his gut.

Eileen's lips thinned to a line and she looked away, silent. Truth be told, Henry could easily guess who she had seen in place of him, but he wanted to know, wanted to feel her words towards him. He knew very well that if there would be somebody to crumble the wall between them, it sure as hell wouldn't be him, even on accident. Now he berated himself for even thinking he could try, but maybe if he _had_ said a word or two, she would've told him easily.

_There's no changing her,_ he told himself brusquely, _And there's no changing this, either._ _Let it go._

He did. Eileen folded her fingers into a tight little fist on her lap and stared out into the round room. Henry averted his eyes until she choked back a disgusted squeal and leaned back onto his shoulder. Snapping his eyes to the room, he saw a pillar of flesh plummet from the ceiling into the abyss below. Eileen gagged, then retched as the pillar reappeared at the top of the ceiling, dangling down. It was the worm Henry had seen many places before, dangling here in the basement of the water prison. Eileen became increasingly disgusted as the end of the worm swayed back and forth, and Henry didn't blame her. It was...disturbingly phallic and reminiscent of an embodiment of pure violence. Eileen buried her face into Henry's shoulder before her stomach weakened to the point of vomiting.

"_What _is that?" she cried, muffled by his shirt, "What the hell is that doing here? Why?"

"I...I don't know," he answered honestly, tentatively raising a hand to hold her shoulder, "I'm...I'm glad I don't know."

Perhaps she took it too personally, but at the sight of that thing Eileen felt violated to the bone. Part of it was definitely because she had a deep, horrid feeling that somehow, someway that monstrous _thing_ was intended for her—in fact, that might've been all of it. She was quite immensely grateful that Henry took no immature part in the presence of such a vulgar thing, for had he not she was afraid she would've shattered right there and then.

"_Please_, Henry," she sobbed, "There has to be somewhere, _anywhere_ but this!"

His silence answered her all too well, and she cried out in frustration.

"_I wanna go home! I wanna get out of here!"_

Henry's sympathy began to melt into worry when the Saint Medallion grew warm against his chest the louder Eileen cried.

"_I don't wanna be here anymore! I...I want my mommy!_"

His fingers tightened to claws on her skin and she inhaled sharply. The heat from the Saint Medallion faded and she began to breathe again, normally, as she should be. She didn't say anything to acknowledge what she had just uttered, but somehow Henry knew that she was turning her words over in her head and there was nothing she could say to soften the blow of her unexpected childishness. After a while of silence she finally spoke again, soft, embarrassed, and submissive.

"I...I'm tired. Can we rest?"

Henry thought for a moment, "You can."

"Me? What about you?" she asked, her eye looking up at him, big and incredulous. Henry looked to the Sword, then to the hole in the wall across the room. He thought of the few silver bullets he had stored in his chest, and he remembered how impervious Andrew seemed to be to normal attacks.

"The key," he replied, "I've got to get the key. I've got something in my apartment that will help, and then I have to go after him."

"You _have_ to go get this," Eileen prodded, chewing her lip in anticipation.

Henry nodded though his neck seemed oddly stiff all of the sudden. Her fingers tightened around his shirt, but slackened as he shifted to stand. Clockworks were spinning madly behind her eyes as she watched him go. He knew she was calculating something at speeds and desperations he was familiar with, though he did not have a trifle of a clue as to what it was exactly that she was so fervently thinking about. Climbing into the hole, he made sure he returned quickly after fishing a silver bullet out of the trunk. It was the only chance he had; there was only one other bullet and Henry got the feeling that they were rarer than the Swords themselves. On top of that he was nervous on relying on such superstition—Swords, Candles, and Medallions he could deal with, but bullets? Silver bullets had been staked into mythology for who knows how long; the single appointed bane of a werewolf, were they not? And here he was putting his faith in this tradition to take out a _ghost_. Not a werewolf, a _ghost_. Truth be told he had received such bullets from enemy ghosts themselves, and it seemed to be their one last breath of humanity when they had coughed them up for him, but even then he was wary. Yet as he held the small silver thing in the palm of his beaten hand, it hummed warmly, confidently, much like the Medallion did around his neck. Perhaps it would do him good, he had only to try.

Eileen was waiting for him, huddled against the far wall as the worm continued to dangle and indirectly threaten her. She stood up as he approached her, and though her stance was wavering her stare was readily defiant, all clockwork behind it stopped.

"I'm going with you." she announced, no pleas or questions present. Henry blinked and stuttered over his words in response.

"It's dangerous out there," he mumbled as he tried to come up with a more concrete answer.

"It's more dangerous in here," Eileen retorted, quite too obviously ready for his reaction and too stubborn to compromise and move her ground. Henry tried juggling his thoughts together before speaking, hoping he could sound at least comprehensible and able to change her mind.

"That worm, it isn't going to hurt you, you're not going to get hurt, I promise, I—,"

Eileen shut him up by pressing herself against him, whispering hoarsely, "It's not the worm. It's...something else,"

Henry squirmed away gently and stared at her, confused. Before he could search her features too thoroughly she turned away and stepped up the stairs on wobbly feet, waiting for him to open the door. Bending down, he picked up the Sword and pulled the gun from his waistband, double-checking for the single silver bullet in his pocket. He would die now if a hole appeared and the bullet had dropped away.

Andrew was a few long strides away, curled into a fetal position. There was a soft mumbling sound, more like weeping than chanting, and every now and then his head shifted from side to side. Holding the gun in his right hand and the Sword in his left, Henry let Eileen stand in the corner of the stairwell as he cautiously approached, gun pointed forward. The silver bullet was still in his pocket, and if his math was right he had three more normal shots before he had the opportunity to load the silver bullet. A sudden thought rotted his gut as he started to panic, after all, he had no idea how to load the single bullet in. He quickly dashed the thought away as he stood at arm's length and poked at Andrew with the barrel of the gun.

The ghost screamed and unraveled, sending out a wave of energy that pushed Henry back down the wide steps and into the far wall. For an instant the Saint Medallion burned white-hot, and it felt as though it was scalding his skin. He wouldn't be surprised if it left a scar.

Lifting the gun up on reflex he shot twice more, catching the ghost in the neck and the shoulder as it slowly floated upwards. It twitched and gurgled as the bullets hit its unnatural flesh, but was otherwise undeterred. Its chantings were frenzied now, and if Henry tried to listen his stomach turned as he recognized scriptures from whatever the Descent of the Holy Mother had said.

"_... Return to the Source through sin's Temptation. Under the Watchful eye...,"_

Henry kept his eyes focused on Andrew's blank ones and unleashed the last shot. The ghost coughed and sputtered in its speech as its gut shook from the impact of the bullet. Dropping down quickly, Henry fished the silver bullet from his pocket and jammed it into where the clip should've gone, pushing it as far as it would go before latching the gun in place. The Sword beside him began to hum and glow in grateful hope as the exposed silver bullet neared its hilt, as did the Saint Medallion seem to change its tune in relief.

"Henry, look out!"

Leaping to the side before he could look, Henry barely avoided another barreling attack from Andrew as he rolled past them until the ghost crashed into the door to the basement. A thin, weak leg of flame from the Sword lashed out at Andrew as he passed over though it did next to nothing to deter him from crashing. Eileen cried in surprise as dust and water flitted down from the impact, but she soon followed up by wailing on the ghost with the nightstick. Andrew's voice started to rise in anger the more Eileen hit him as he floated higher and higher away from her reach.

" ..._alone in the formless Chaos. Only then..._"

Giving a shake of his head to rid the hair from his face, Henry raised the gun, prayed to whoever upstairs was going to listen, and screamed, "_Get down Eileen!"_

He squeezed the trigger and the barrel of the gun flashed white as the shot pounded in his ears. For half a second he felt his heart plummet as hot sparks sprayed on his hand—the bullet didn't work, it didn't work, it was _useless_.

Then Andrew screamed and twisted his chubby limbs in wretched directions as he crumbled to the floor. Dropping the gun, Henry gripped the Sword and raced forward, feeling before seeing the yellow flames lap down its dark blade. Andrew, no more than a creature writhing helplessly in pain, twisted and rolled, the scars on his face still smiling as his chanting roared and bounced down the hallways.

"_AND HE WHO IS THE RECEIVER OF WISDOM—,"_

Henry paused only to look at the bloated wretch in its soulless eyes before he slid the sword into its gut, pinning him to the floor.

Andrew's cries fell to soft whispers, now truly the mindless babble of an insane man, a language unrecognizable to everyone but him. A black hole simmered in his ample chest, in the shape of an exploding star. Henry ignored the bullet wound and dropped to his knees, finding the hand that was balled into a fist. Forcing the fingers open, he took the wiry key from the ghost and stood up.

"What was his name?" Eileen asked. Henry pocketed the gun, his voice low as if he was still unsure how to feel about the victim.

"Andrew. De Salvo, I think. He...worked here."

Eileen's eyes flashed as though she too was trying to figure out how to feel about the poor man's situation. Henry could only give her a sympathetic look as they passed back through the doorway into the far basement, putting a fresh clip into the gun. She wasted no time in urging him to hurry, keeping a wary eye on where the phallic worm was soon to appear.

"Let's go. It's so...damp and gross here."

The key broke in the lock but the door still opened, and they stepped inside without a moment's hesitation, expecting to find the foggy spiral staircase they had always found beyond the marked doors.

What they found instead was a phalanx of identical twin-faced demons. As soon as the door shut behind them, each one raised their right hands and pointed their long white fingers in their direction. A chorus of similar whispers rose, so quiet that it barely echoed in the large dark room, all addressing Henry as his title of this damned place. His hand immediately went to the doorknob behind them, but he could only tug at it helplessly, hearing the broken head of the wiry key jiggle inside the lock. Far ahead they could see the faint shape of a white door behind the troop of the monsters, beyond their reach. Keeping themselves plastered against the close wall, they spoke in hushed whispers, never taking their eyes off of the monsters should they move.

"What do we do?" Eileen asked, rapidly counting the creatures she could see, "There's at least ten of them if not more,"

"Run?" Henry suggested though that was near-hopeless, "I think, maybe they'd target me, and you could get away safely."

"What if they don't target you?" she countered, "And even if they do, what about you? How will you get away?"

"Um," Henry answered, eying a monster that had started to become restless, "I don't know."

The first twin-faced demon laid down its raised hand and charged.

There was a cry of surprise, maybe two, he couldn't even tell if he yelled as he frantically ran forward to meet the charge. Swinging the bat wildly, he heard a satisfying crack as the heads knocked together and the masks shattered, but that only caused the lines of monsters to shift and waver before they all loped forward. This time Henry could tell it was Eileen who screamed as the monsters surrounded him, though truth be told if he had had the time to scream he would be.

He wished the bat was longer as he swung with all the power his weak arms could give, yelling over the endless sea of identical ceramic faces, yelling at Eileen to move now before it was too late. Somewhere over the crowded whispers of the voices and the blood pounding in his head he heard the off-beat clip-clop of her heels echoing in the room. He twisted his shoulder around and his body followed suit to clip a face on the chin before smashing its skull in an overhand swing. The heavy metal door opened at the far end of the hall and suddenly his muscles were relaxing in relief, she had made it, she had made it out and that was all that mattered.

Ducking under the whispers and judging faces of the demons, Henry swung low at their hands. Perhaps if a miracle came his way he could escape too, but it wasn't likely. There were too many of them, and Henry was getting hit and beaten far more than he could handle. Collapsing in the frenzy of dirty robes and oily feathers, Henry frantically tried to crawl away from the bony fingers and gnashing ceramic faces as they closed in over him, worming his way between two pale thin arms between him and the door.

A hard, cold hand clasped over his back and pulled, and he pawed frantically at the concrete floor, feeling his life slipping away as he slid backwards into the fingers and mouths behind him. He opened his mouth to scream, waiting for the first monster to tear into him when he noticed that something was standing behind the pale arms he so wanted to crawl through. There was a pained grunt and the pale arms wobbled from the sound of a thick, dull thud. The demon toppled over as Eileen shoved it aside, hitting it one more time with the nightstick for good measure. She knelt down and Henry took her hand desperately, pulling himself away from the demons behind him. The cold hand tightened around his torso and he squirmed.

"The gun!" he screamed, "The gun, Eileen!"

Eileen fell to her seat, reluctantly letting him go as she reached for the handgun tucked into his waistband. The weapon felt cold and heavy in her hands, but she forced herself past the icy thoughts as she fumbled helplessly with the safety before it clicked. Henry released his grip on her so as not to drag her with him as the monster pulled him away. Fiddling until it fit in the palm of her hand, Eileen pointed and shot.

The ceramic faces of the demon that held Henry contorted horribly as it fell backwards in a spray of blood. Regaining himself rather quickly, Henry stumbled to his feet, helping to pull Eileen back up before racing to the steel door. It was ajar, and as they pulled through to the other side they could hear the seething whispers and guttural growls of the monsters as they cannibalized the remains of their bleeding comrade. The steel door shut and they collapsed in a heap, breathing heavily.

It was a long time before they felt alright enough to stand and move on. The air was dark and thick, most of their only light coming from wiry lamp posts along the spiral staircase. Henry cautiously led the way, slipping accidentally on the blood that covered the stairs. Stepping carefully, Eileen followed him, keeping her eyes to the stairs as he did, dreading the eventual fork the road where he would most likely leave her for whatever he needed in his room. The anticipation was painful enough until a rhythmic squeaking turned both their attentions to the chain linked wall.

Eileen wailed and clutched Henry, pressing herself hard into his side. Instinctively his arms went up to her shoulders to pull her closer, though the more he stared at it the less he wanted to touch her in fear of upsetting her more. It took him a long time to pull his gaze away, but once he did no amount of herculean efforts could ever coax him to look again. The more he thought about it the more he saw Eileen there strung up by her ankles, bruised, bleeding and naked, twisting and writhing against her will.

He had to keep telling himself that it was just a mannequin and not Eileen's body, and that Eileen was there and pressing against him and she was still warm, but no amount of imagination could replace the image in his head. Gulping down bile, he slowly pulled their heavy feet farther away from the rhythmic mannequin. Prying himself away from Eileen he tried to unsuccessfully calm her down as she choked and retched over her quiet sobs.

"_Don't leave!_" she cried, "_Don't leave, not here, not with that...thing!_"

Henry bit his lip and glanced at the hole. He had no extra bullets but the gun was relatively fully loaded, the bat was with him and he wasn't carrying much. There was a need to replace the severely deteriorated Saint Medallion, and the possibility of another poltergeist in his apartment, but...he could survive until the next hole appeared.

"Okay," he whispered, "Okay."

Eileen looked up to search his face for any signs of insincerity. After finding none, she lowered her head and cupped her mouth, continuing to quietly whimper to herself. Gently, Henry pushed her away from the writhing mannequin, willing her to step forward to the door that was too far away. He watched her wobbly knees work stiffly from step to step. By the time they had reached the door she no longer needed his support, standing straight although a little shaken. They were both quiet, but as Henry put his hand on the doorknob Eileen spoke.

"Henry, I—," he paused and glanced at her, "I...um. Nevermind. I...don't know what to say." She shook her head and muttered something else before falling silent. Stepping closer to him as he twisted the knob, they stepped into the next world bare and unprepared.

There were two cars in the small parking lot, one of them had crashed through the chainlink fence and was teetering over the edge. The skid marks curved from all the way back to the crooked entrance. Henry's eyes followed up the buildings that closed them in on two sides, from the few bright apartment windows to the buzzing Fuseli sign to the ledge next to the sign. What brought him to look there he didn't know, but it was there that he saw the form of a man. He seemed to be dressed in black, sharp clothes that were since tattered from use. The man wavered on the ledge before letting himself fall forward. Henry was about to cry out and rush to where he was going to land when the Saint Medallion began to buzz against his chest. He stopped and swallowed hard. Eileen grabbed his arm, the nightstick dangling loosely from her wrist.

"What is it? What did you see?"

The man that had fallen slowly got up, and he could see that he was not wearing black, but rather the clothes had been _charred_ black as though they had been through a fire. Before he could tell Eileen to get back the image of the man flickered and disappeared, and the ghost reappeared mere feet away from Henry's face.

Hot shrapnel scattered down his shirt as the Saint Medallion shattered and Henry shrieked, swinging the bat in front of him just as the wave of pain crashed down on his skull. His vision flickered to a harsh red like an old light bulb regaining its strength. The bat swung and missed as the ghost disappeared again and Henry crumbled to the ground. This was different. The pain in his head was spastic and sharp, sometimes popping like a firework and raining static shocks from one side to the other. Sluggishly he pulled himself to his feet and glanced around, holding his head in pain.

"What was that?" Eileen gasped, nightstick clutched firmly in her hand. Henry stumbled backward and growled pitifully.

"A _ghost_," he staggered, "It's—,"

The headache strengthened within a fraction of a second, and Henry had just barely enough sense to turn around. He saw bulging white eyes webbed with veins and a dark crowbar before he felt the heavy iron bite into his shoulder. He fell again crying in pain. The headache increased, and he felt his spine overload and burn. His cries were cut short as his jaw froze in place, and everywhere from his stomach to his fingers and toes began to shake and twitch, and before he knew it all he could see was flashing red lights in front of his eyes and a blaring white noise in his ear. The prickling sensation on his skin was unbearable but he couldn't reach any of it, he couldn't relieve any of it.

Somewhere above the white noise he could hear Eileen screaming in rage accompanied by the _thump thump_ of the nightstick. Then, miraculously, the red stopped flashing in his eyes and left, followed by a slow creeping sensation that started from the corners of his eyes and traveled down to his fingertips and toes, releasing the prickling sensation and the complete lockdown of his nerves. Lethargically his rolled his eyes around, feeling the urgency of the situation but unable to respond to it. Something warm and sticky huddled at the corner of his lips and he smacked them lowly, recoiling at the taste of cooling saliva.

"Oh, oh _hell_ Henry, are you okay? Oh god, what do I do, what do I _do?_"

He moaned and gritted his teeth, clawing weakly at the pavement. Eileen's hand touched his shoulder and she tried to right him again, but the ghost reappeared behind her. Henry gurgled and forced air into his throat.

"_It's there!_"

Eileen stood up and turned on her heel, nightstick raised. The red began to flash in his vision again and he choked on his words. He began to pray that Eileen could beat it off again, just for a moment so he could regain himself before he fell prey to the lockdown again. The nightstick _thumped_ once, twice, and then Eileen screamed.

Not in rage, this was a different scream. A scream of terror and disbelief, of sorrow and guilt.

"_No! No,_ not _you! No, no, no, NO!_" She began to cry as she stumbled back and almost tripped over Henry's limp form, "_Richard, no!_"

Henry curled his body pitifully as he silently wept for the both of them, the red lights flashing brighter as the ghost slowly approached, step by agitated step. Eileen sobbed hoarsely as she toppled backward, stopped only by the bumper of the car that had crashed through the fence. Henry snarled and tried to uncurl himself and push his body upwards, trying to fight the flashing lights in his head. The ghost of Richard slowly swung the crowbar in front of him, stiff like a wind-up toy. Henry felt foam and drool slide down his chin as he uneasily stood up and raised the bat. Richard flickered like static on a TV before freezing in place. Henry swung the bat as hard as he could and Richard fell, shimmered, and disappeared again. Turning on his heel, Henry kept the bat ready, expecting the ghost to reappear somewhere behind him. Eileen hugged herself, sobbing and choking, rocking back and forth against the unstable balance of the car. Resent simmered in his gut for her, but he ignored the feeling as he breathed heavily, searching for the ghost.

There was no warning as the crowbar raked down his back. Henry fell again, but the ghost stepped over him, approaching Eileen with his hand stretched out. Eileen's sobs fell to whimpers as she tightened her arms around herself, watching Richard's blank eyes fervently as his hand reached closer to the flesh thinly covering her heartbeat.

Henry shut his eyes but the flashing red lights stayed, mocking him over the noise of Eileen's hoarse breaths.


	24. Chapter 24

_Disclaimers: I always took care of Richard first time I saw him in Building World, so I don't actually know the places he reappears at**. **I also accidentally skipped a room within the chapter, fortunately it was unimportant, unfortunately I'm too lazy to fix it at the moment but I know how to reincorporate it later._

_I tried my best with the relationship between Eileen and Richard in this one. Happy Holidays!  
_

* * *

**Chapter 24**

Eileen felt the static in the air grow as Richard's fingers reached forward, but she was frozen. She couldn't believe, couldn't be _made_ to believe that he had become this..._thing_. Just yesterday, just _yesterday_ she was talking with him and he was responding, they were debating over what to do with the resident of room 302 (where was he now? Eileen couldn't remember, all she saw was Richard's ghastly face before her) and just the other day they had chatted at the mailboxes. And here he was now, reaching out to her for help? For something, something of hers, at least. But the humanity in his eyes had left, there was nothing on his face save for dried columns of blood that had oozed from the numbers carved on his head.

_19/21_

His fingers were breaths away from the bare skin on her chest, and a tiny spark leapt from the tips to her skin. Her heart shuddered and cowered from the static shock, and she inhaled sharply and caught his wrist before the hand plunged into her as it had plunged into Henry's back in the subway.

"Richard, _please_,"

For a moment, for just a moment she thought she had gotten through to the man underneath the horror, the man she had befriended to the initial surprise of everyone. That was the type of person Eileen was; she could make friends with anyone and everyone. Perhaps the ghost would remember that, perhaps she could befriend him all over again and they'd be saved from this horror.

But whatever she thought was recognition in the ghost's eyes was a dire misinterpretation, because the ghost easily wrenched its wrist away from Eileen's hand and soon she found its fingers wrapped around her throat. Static shocks from his fingers pricked her skin like white hot pins and needles, and she gasped in terror as tears continued to scroll down her cheeks. Whatever the sparks were doing they were doing well because she found herself unable to move or resist as the ghost's head suffered multiple spasms as its fingers closed tightly around her neck. Eileen gurgled and tried to pull back, stumbling as the car teetered farther over the edge. Her eyes locked with his as she felt the car slip further away with her mind.

There was something prodding at her, poking the back of her head. At first she thought she was leaning so far against the car that something was hitting her, but when it pushed its way into her mind, prying her head apart from the inside, she knew that the car was the last thing it could ever be. She felt the shudder travel down her spine to her crunched toes before blood seemed to conquer her vision, her thoughts, and her head.

That's when her mind's eye exploded. The writhing mannequin from the spiral staircase surfaced in her head, but it was different this time; there was a face, a face on the mannequin and it turned slowly to stare at her.

Eileen screamed. The face was familiar but she didn't know who it was, it seemed to embody an _ideal _of someone but as she tried to push the vision away the face's shape shifted and when she dared look again she couldn't find the breath to scream when she saw her own eyes looking back at her, hanging upside down, writhing and twisting and moaning. Some force pulled her to the mannequin and though she tried to resist the force was wicked and strong. Blood pooled in her mouth and she cried as it silenced her. Jerks and pulls tugged at her limbs and soon she found herself writhing as well as blood continued to dribble down the cold atmosphere, pooling underneath her and boiling with an unholy stench. She opened her mouth to try and scream again, just one more time, just a scream of help or mercy or _something_ because she was alone here, alone with a presence she knew would kill her all too soon if she remained in this place.

There was a hollow _whack _and the jerks and pulls stopped. Retching and choking, she swallowed down the blood in her throat and screamed for help. In a flood of whispers and a blur of colors, things flashed to a bright white and suddenly she saw Richard. His eyes were just as fierce as they always were, but he looked very tired and weak, as though he had fallen ill. Eileen gurgled and stuttered, was he back? Did something happen to bring him back?

Richard's head twitched and suddenly he wasn't Richard again; once again charred and spastic. She felt his ghostly fingers wrap around her lacy black choker and she swallowed hard. There was another hollow _whack_ and Richard roared in anger, raising the crowbar above his head. Eileen shivered and ducked, covering her head. Another _whack_, and the ghost swung the crowbar down, denting the trunk of the sedan and missing Eileen by mere breaths. She screamed and fell to the ground, covering her head as she scooted underneath the edge of the raised sedan.

Henry swung the bat again, the hollow sound coupling with Richard's anger. Tears of pain streamed down his face, and after each swing he had to momentarily stumble back and catch his breath, blinking harshly. Weakly he stepped forward and drunkenly swung the bat, but the ghost's nose curled in a snarl and Richard flickered out of existence. Henry heaved in a breath of short relief, panting and gulping as much air down as possible before it reappeared.

The car wavered over Eileen's head and she shrieked, pulling her hand up as though she could stop the vehicle should it crash on her. Richard's ghost, perched on the top of the car, roared in anger as his limbs started and stopped with the rhythm of a broken circuit. The bat slipped from Henry's fingers as he pulled his aching legs forward. Lowering his shoulder and tensing his muscles, Henry ran into the off-balance car, pushing all his weight forward. It did not take much for the car to slide across the concrete and fall as he pushed again, causing the sedan to push past the balanced edge. The ghost, unable to float, toppled over with the car as it slid over the edge of the building and fell. Henry gurgled and dropped to the ground, shielding Eileen as metal screeched on concrete. The screeching came to a halt, and after a short time of suspended silence there was a sickening metallic crunch followed by shattering glass.

Shaking, Henry pushed himself up. Eileen lied between his arms, trembling as he was and muttering softly to herself. He coughed deeply, and bit his lip as more tears trickled out of his eyes. His muscles felt sore and his jaw ached from clenching it so hard. Nausea swirled from his head to his stomach, after-effects of the ghost, he supposed. Pulling himself forward, he stretched out his neck and tried to aim as far away as possible as his stomach heaved and he vomited. Startled out of her trance, Eileen jerked her head to the side, pulling all but strands of her hair away just in time. She swallowed and waited as he coughed and sputtered painfully—there was no food left in his stomach and he was practically throwing nothing up but bile and remnants of the nutrition drink they had shared earlier. He choked and coughed, feeling his limbs go weak. Struggling to utter an apology, he tried to pull away from her as gracefully as possible.

Eileen placed her fingers over his collarbone, breathing relatively calmly as he sputtered again. Carefully she helped guide him off her and onto the cracked pavement. Henry wheezed and cradled himself, particularly his head. Eileen watched him, ignoring the smell of vomit to her side. When his fingers stopped trembling and he seemed to regain his senses, she spoke.

"That was Richard."

Henry blinked and looked at her.

"That was Richard Braintree, he lived in room 207."

"Oh...," Henry gurgled, "Yes."

"He's dead."

"Yes."

"He's _dead_."

Henry gazed at her warily, seeing a rising pain in her visible eye. Eileen pulled herself up so she was sitting. Her eye intensified greatly, catching the artificial lights in the thickness of her tears.

"I was talking with him _yesterday_. He was completely fine _yesterday_. He...he...he _died_ and there were no...," Eileen bit her lip as the tears started rolling, staring past Henry as he struggled to sit up. She took focus on him as he uneasily slid his legs closer to his body and let go of her lip, ignoring the blood dribbling from the new wound she had made.

"How did he die, Henry? _Please_, how did he die? He...you were there, weren't you?"

"There was...a chair, in his room," Henry confessed, despising the acidic bile that ate away at his tongue as he spoke, "An electric chair."

"_What?_" Eileen squeaked, "There was...no, _no!_ That's _impossible_, it...Did you help him?"

Henry could hear the pitch in her voice shift as she spoke, and he felt increasingly uncomfortable sitting next to her, sensing as though there was something inside her pulling her towards an edge she wouldn't otherwise cross. Eileen stared him down accusingly, lips curling into a face of disgust the more she stared at him. Her eyes were wild and borderline savage, threatening to hurt him should she get the chance.

"You didn't help him! _You didn't help him!_ Richard could be alive right now, if you had only helped him! If...if you had helped him Richard would be here and I would be _home!_ Because he was number nineteen, wasn't he? I would be home and safe and none of this would've continued!"

"I _tried!_" Henry screamed, throwing out his hand towards her. Eileen flinched and jerked as though she was expecting him to slap her, but when he didn't she looked curiously at his outstretched hand. There was a long, heavy pause where things seemed to wheel backwards in Eileen's head as Henry rasped hoarsely. Very carefully, Eileen took his hand and raised it closer to her face, examining the palm with shaky breaths.

"This...," she whispered guiltily, "What is this?"

Henry gulped and curled his fingers over the star-shaped scar on his hand, "There wasn't a cord or a plug...just the cuffs...holding him there."

Eileen was very silent, so much so that for a moment Henry was afraid she was going to burst, but instead she lowered her head until his hand brushed the space between her eyes. She sniffed audibly and trembled as she held his hand. Henry felt the sweat bead on his fingertips from both his and Eileen's skin, and he tried to keep himself from trembling nervously. She was still teetering on the brink as much as the car just was, and he wasn't sure that she was entirely back yet.

Moreover, part of him almost couldn't handle his skin touching hers in such an intimate way, and the other part...well...was intrigued.

"Henry, what is wrong with me?" she whispered hoarsely, "What's happening to me?"

He stared at her sympathetically before gently easing his hand away from her. She reluctantly let him retreat, rocking her body gently back and forth. Shifted and scraping across the rough pavement, he scooted closer to her, resting a hand on her clammy shoulder. She shuddered, failing to choke back a sob.

"I saw things, I saw the mannequin back at the...the staircase." she leaned into Henry's touch, eventually pressing herself against his chest, "It was _looking _at me with _eyes_ and a _face _and...and then it...,"

She coughed heavily and refused to finish her sentence. Henry awkwardly slid his hand further along her back, tentative so as not to brush along her scars. Eileen's voice, rife with sobs and quiet from fear, was rather difficult to make out, but Henry could still hear and comprehend what she said next to his strengthening dismay.

"I saw myself...I saw myself as the mannequin, Henry."

He wouldn't like to believe it, but his grip tightened around her body so roughly that it caused marks in her skin.

"There was blood everywhere and I...I was the mannequin."

"Eileen...,"

Henry couldn't even think of how hesitant he normally would've been as he rested his chin in her hair. She smelled of sweat and scabbing blood, though there were still traces of the scent of her shampoo, softly sweetened with herbs and berries. Henry sighed shakily, his chest burning with pain from his broken rib. Or perhaps it wasn't just the rib that hurt, it felt as though this pain spread throughout his chest without seeming to anchor in any one particular spot. The pain continued to reside, not exactly lethal, but distracting and curious. Part of him wanted to pull away, but a different part wanted to stay to try and identify the specific berries and herbs that had been used in her shampoo.

There was a sharp scream and they both jumped. It echoed across the concrete walls, but was a relatively safe distance away. Silently apologizing, Henry pulled away from Eileen and stood up.

"It's not safe here," he urged, holding out his hand, "We have to leave."

Eileen took his hand and stood up, wiping the tears from her eye. She nodded, albeit reluctantly, and waited for him to lead the way. He stopped for a moment, stooping down to pick up an open old diary on the ground not far from where the tail end of the car used to be. Blowing the dust off and gently wiping the page clean, he quietly read the confusing entry out loud as she patiently listened.

_I want to go back to that time..._

_Things were so good then..._

_The day of my birthday..._

_The cute cat in the pet store..._

_All those balls in the basket..._

_Playing pool was fun too..._

_The door of time was wide open..._

_When I see four things, I can't help but remember that time..._

Flipping through the diary proved fruitless; there were no other entries pointing them any closer to the meaning of the first entry. None of the pages were even written on, there was just the one entry spanning the one page in the middle of the book. Carefully, Henry tore the page out and left the diary on the ground. There was _some_ reason the diary had lain face up and open to the entry page, however vague and unreachable that reason may be. He hoped the world would present itself with an answer, as it had always seemed to do before, but at the same time he wasn't and couldn't be sure.

Eileen looked around them as he picked his way over garbage and fencing to carve a pathway to the doors of a solid metal elevator imbedded in the wall of the building where Richard's ghost had appeared. When he had pushed aside a fair amount of garbage bags and stray fencing and beckoned her to follow him, she remarked to him rather quietly as she gazed at the glowing neon signs.

"I remember this place...It looks a lot like downtown Ashfield...,"

Henry stared with her as she turned, gaze flicking from building to building. She stared out into the void and darkness beyond the immediate buildings and pointed.

"Our apartment building is over there, or...it should be."

He stood quietly, hand outstretched as a constant beckoning as she slowly turned away from staring forlornly into the lonely void. Taking his hand out of habit now more than anything, she followed him as he pushed the button and gently led her into the industrial-grade elevator. The floor, much to her dismay, was grated. It was a little nauseating due to seeing that there was nothing but the grating between them and the vast, alien elevator shaft, but the elevator operated smoothly enough that if she kept her eyes off of the floor she felt fine. Henry rested against the far doors of the elevator as it moved steadily upwards, breathing deeply but stiffly. Sheepish as she watched him, Eileen tried to busy herself to look casual and nonchalant, as hard as that charade was to pull off.

"Henry?"

He opened his eyes and looked at her in response.

"Are you...sure you're alright? I mean you...didn't look so good back there."

Henry grunted softly and shut his eyes tightly as he shifted.

"There's...not really much I can do." he confessed. Eileen twisted her lip.

"True...but if you want to rest then you can."

Henry didn't respond although she felt he was rather thankful for the suggestion though he wouldn't act upon it. She sighed inwardly as the elevator slowed to a stop.

There was only a small amount of ledge for them to step out on. It wasn't quite as dangerous, but it was enough to raise their heart rates past normal. Cautious, Henry kept a relatively even distance that placed himself right down the middle of the walkway. Mimicking him, Eileen followed, slightly unnerved by the height. Henry paused just before the corner, tense. There was a flimsy guardrail on the open side of the railway that should've calmed them more if they hadn't heard the faint, definite shambling of lean feet against the concrete. Inwardly groaning, Henry raised the bat in front of him as a pinkish dog stepped into their view, its flat nose sniffing and twitching as it blindly felt about its surroundings.

By the time the dog sensed their presence it was already too late for it, Henry swung the bat at its legs. It stumbled with an angry cry followed by a shriek as he pushed it off the small ledge. The noise had roused another dog from around the corner, and Henry kept Eileen back to lure it out before repeating much the same process with it, expending little to no energy. Relieved, Eileen followed him as he rounded the corner to wider ground. There was a wire stairwell climbing up the side of the building and as much as Eileen couldn't fathom doing so, she followed him diligently until they were in a small sports shop of sorts.

It was definitely in disarray and abandoned; dust collecting in the corners and settling on the scattered sports equipment. Some of the equipment was horribly misshapen, golf clubs bent at awkward angles, various deflated basketballs and volleyballs, tennis rackets torn to shreds, ripped bags crushed amongst the collapsed shelves. There was an air of bygone days clinging to the atmosphere of the shop, bringing with it a sort of pitying sadness. Still, there was a sort of familiarity in the sports shop that brought some ease with the pity. No blood dripped from the walls, there was no underlying stench of decay, and nothing was off-color or out of place.

Except for, of course, the curious unopened package of birthday candles on the counter. Henry slid it off of the counter to examine it, turning it over in his hand. He hadn't given two thoughts about birthdays until he had read the note he had found left alone on the ground only moments before; perhaps this was part of the process of the puzzles solving themselves. Pocketing the package of candles, he looked to the hole on the far wall bordered by a broken basket of volleyballs. Eileen was right, he should rest. Not that returning to his room would immediately fix and prepare him, but it might help, if only a little. Besides, Henry was horribly unprepared to fight any ghosts he were to encounter here, and the very least he could do was to pick up a Saint Medallion for their protection. He turned to Eileen, and motioned for her to sit.

"There's a hole here...you can rest while I get things to figh—," Henry stopped short, remembering the recognition and fear on Eileen's face the moment she had seen Richard's ghost. His expression shrank in embarrassment. Eileen peered at him. The bat was battered and bent, but it was still in working order; there were several golf clubs in the corner that weren't ruined that would serve as a quick and useful substitution should they be needed. Tired as she was, her mind was still sharp, frighteningly so, and it didn't take her long to finish Henry's sentence for him in a tone slightly more accusatory than she meant it to be.

"To stop Richard, you mean."

Henry withdrew further, and a small pang of regret tugged at Eileen's heart, but not as much as she was expecting it to. It worried her.

"I...just go," she blurted past the growing lump in her throat. Meekly, Henry nodded and rose, disappearing into the wall. Eileen coughed violently after he left, blinking back oncoming tears. Using the counter to help her rise, she wobbled a bit before limping to where the golf clubs were scattered, and began rummaging through the various clubs, setting aside unbroken and sturdy ones. When she was done she simply sat amongst the mess, massaging her swollen knees and blistered ankles as she waited for Henry to return, trying to ignore the ever-present push in the back of her mind that, like or not, seemed to be leaking past her defenses. She shivered and muttered comforting words to herself despite knowing how ultimately futile it was.

–

Henry awoke with a groan. Turning to the side, he held his temples gingerly as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The headache was growing stronger with time, and it took him far too long to register that he needed to stand up and get away from the bed. Henry blinked and shook his head, squinting the remnants of exhausted sleep (if sleep was anything like traveling between the two dimensions was) so he could see what it was that was happening to the wall just above his bed.

Dark, oily splotches appeared from nowhere, growing darker and deeper at the epicenter. The unnamed liquid began to dribble down the wall, and it was in that petrifying moment Henry's heart stopped as he suddenly remembered the unending nightmares he had had on the days leading up to the hole appearing in his bathroom. He stumbled and hit the back of his thigh on the corner of his desk as a pasty, bald head poked its way through oily gate, followed by two hands that reached out and curled its fingers around the wall to pull its body through. Pushing a scream down his throat, Henry fled into the living room. Matches. He needed matches.

Cursing audibly, Henry nearly tripped over himself at the sight of the exact same ghost pulling itself through the wall just over the peephole into Eileen's room. It struggled and moaned, but it seemed to get no farther than its chest before it got stuck. That did not ease Henry's mind, though. Every second spent with the ghost half-in his room was another second he felt being sucked further into the void and further towards Walter's world. Henry kept his peripheral vision on the writhing ghost as he fumbled for the matches to light a Holy Candle. He was running out of his supply of Candles and that worried him; there was only one more in the trunk and if he didn't find any more he didn't know how he would be able to combat the poltergeists constantly fighting their way into his room.

He backed away as the Candle slowly but surely burned itself away underneath the ghost's twisting chest. Shivering as the ghost made eye contact with him, Henry got the distinct feeling that he should recognize the creature as the aura from the flame of the Candle forced the ghost back from whence it came. Its gazed pierced Henry so deeply his chest hurt as though he was watching a family member or a dear mentor die in slow torturous pain. As was such, he remained frozen until the damned eyes of the ghost disappeared, followed by the bloody oil spots. When the wick of the candle fizzled out Henry gasped as though he had been choking only moments before, and it took him several minutes of heaving and rasping before he regained his breath. When he did, his saliva tasted slimy and coppery, and his throat hurt when he swallowed the foul taste down. Grabbing a chair to steady himself as he nearly fell to the floor, he shivered as he held himself, keeping his gaze turned away from where the ghost was.

_Why_ did he chose this apartment, of all places?

It's true that the apartment's rather quaint shape and old-fashioned brick was an appealing change to the stoic, gray cement and the bright, unfeeling neon of downtown Ashfield. When he first came across the apartment building he couldn't help but take a picture of the courtyard bordered by the wings of the building and decorated with two healthy maple trees at the entrance. When he had seen the hand-made "FOR RENT" sign in the window of one of the rooms, he was intrigued and inquired within, thus meeting Frank Sunderland for the first time with his camera in hand. This initial impression eventually led to the grand picture hanging in the living room, a gift from the super when Henry had finally decided to move in not long after. There was a sense of peace when he had first sat down in the living room after the last box was unpacked and put away; he liked the apartment, and he got the vague impression that, somehow, the apartment liked him, that he was in a way meant to be there.

Just before Henry had become trapped in his room the weather had started to turn cold and the maple trees outside began to dye their leaves a bold, lush red that seemed to set the branches on fire with such an excess of heartwarming color. Fall had always been one of Henry's favorite times of the year; he enjoyed the vibrant, fiery hues and the brisk weather leading into winter where the snow would blanket and silence the earth—both seasons were golden opportunities, it seemed to Henry, to take photographs, both for personal and commercial use. A shame, he had thought on the second morning, that he seemed to be fated to spend this time of the year locked away indoors. That was before the panic had set in later that same night.

Henry staggered over to the window and peered down at the courtyard, gazing as the dry branches of the maple trees swayed and clacked quietly in the wind though he couldn't hear the noise. A cloud of browned leaves that had lost their previous luster skittered out from the roots of the trees and spun in a circle as it traveled over the gray asphalt. Henry felt a dull pang, watching the leaves dance until the wind eventually flung them away to separate areas of the courtyard. Closing his eyes with a hurtful sigh, he struggled to wrench himself away—for he could easily watch such things for days—and opened the trunk in the hallway. He lifted the Sword of Obedience from the bottom of the pile, catching a Saint Medallion before it rolled off the smooth wooden blade. Resting the Sword and the bat against the wall, Henry slipped the Medallion over his head and tucked it under his shirt. Before he left to rejoin Eileen he slowly opened his bedroom door and peeked in, just to double-check that the ghost was gone from his whole apartment and not just the living room. Satisfied with the blank wall, he quietly shut the door and picked up the dented weapon and the Sword of Obedience, and climbed back into the hole.

–

"Are you alright Henry? You seem...sullen." Eileen noted as he returned, biting her lip before she said that he seemed like he had seen a ghost. Henry quietly assured her it was nothing although it was obvious he was lying. Deciding that it wasn't immediately important, she showed him the golf clubs she had selected, mostly drivers and heavier clubs. Henry only took one, leaving the rest for a later time should they need them. Helping her rise, it was painfully obvious that Henry was avoiding conversation if at all possible. As he opened the door for her, all Eileen wanted to do was apologize, but the words were stuck in her throat. By the time she felt courageous enough to say them they had entered the stank room. She had just enough time to see the fat chunks of rotting meat on rolling shelves when before their eyes a man appeared out of thin air; the very shape, posture, and sour expression of Richard Braintree. Eileen, frozen in terror, half-suspected Henry to drop to the ground and seize again. Thankfully he didn't, although deep down in her heart Eileen wondered if she was truly thankful for what happened next.

For what everything was worth, Richard had always been kind to her. Of course, it was kindness as measured by Richard's standards; he was still as brash as ever around her, but he kept her at a distance from his always wild temper. She had never tried to reason so deeply as to why this was, she was simply content and confident in her social abilities, the same abilities that attributed to her wide variety of friends from all sorts of groups and cliques. At the same time it was interesting to her that she seemed to be Richard's _only_ ongoing friend that he had. True, lots of the other tenants complained about him behind closed doors (and Eileen could certainly see why), but the lack of companions he seemed to have inside and outside the apartment did seem odd to her. He never mentioned any family members, no parents or siblings, no wives or children. Eileen was far too polite to pry, but sometimes she wondered about where the soured man had come from and why he only lifted the corners of his lips to smirk or scoff.

It didn't take long for the various tenants of South Ashfield Heights to come to _her_ when they had a complaint with Richard instead of seeking out the questionably senile superintendent. She had done the best she could to talk to Richard about the various demands and requests from their fellow tenants, but often times she would edit how questions were worded and more times than not never ask the question at all just to give the old man peace. Many of them were borderline ridiculous or accusatory anyways, and Eileen figured Richard heard more of the gossip than he ever let on. He didn't seem to care much.

Henry swung the Sword violently, pushing the ghost back and away from her. The polished wooden blade burst into yellow flame that reached towards the ghost, eager to exorcise it.

Richard didn't know that Eileen had noticed how little he looked at her. All prettiness aside, Eileen was friendly and comfortable, easy to look at during a conversation, in other words. She didn't exactly demand or expect eyes to be on her because of this, but after many run-ins and short, nonchalant meetings with the tenant from room 207, she was curious to see that he tried his best to avoid eye contact. When he was staring at her, Eileen noticed that he had an almost longing, wistful look about him, as if she reminded him of days gone by, perhaps some childhood friend or a past lover, maybe, even, past daughter. Eileen was patient; she wasn't overly eager to know if there was any truth to her suspicions, and she was confident that if Richard wanted to tell her, he would tell her. If not, she was okay with that too. It was his past, not hers.

She flinched as the blade pierced the ghost's chest with a spark of fire and a indignant scream from the ghost's cracked lips. Part of her wanted to scream with it, as if she could feel its ethereal pain, but the suddenness of it all sewed her lips shut. Henry stumbled back and away from the ghost, panting and wiping a thin film of sweat from his cheeks. Some deep impulse of hers wanted to scream at him, wanted to shout and claw and shriek at his audacity, but as she breathed deeper and deeper she was able to quell such uncounted rage, but the effort left her exhausted. Sliding to her knees, she bit her lower lip to hide the presence of her mounting tears.

Henry watched her approach Richard as he regained his breath. The Saint Medallion around his neck had to work outrageously hard to protect him, and it had deteriorated greatly during the short, closed-quarters battle. He was inwardly glad that Richard was taken care of, but he couldn't help but feel guilt as he saw Eileen's trembling hand reach out towards the ghost's face. Though she tried to at least touch it the ghost kept twitching, as it were, always startling her so that she never gained the opportunity to say her final good-bye to him. After a while, she shifted away from the ghost, covering her face as she wept silently. Henry gave her time, perhaps too much time, before he approached her and helped her to her feet. She stumbled a bit and squeezed her eyes shut as she pressed her face into his shoulder. Again, Henry gave her time before gently urging her forward until they were through the next door. He shut it quietly behind them and studied her gently.

"Is everything alright?" he asked, fighting the heat that was spreading over his cheeks.

Eileen took her time responding as she pondered the question, thinking and turning over her friendship with the disliked man in her head. She didn't honestly think it would end so abruptly like this for him even though the number of enemies far outweighed the number of friends he kept.

But, the more she thought about it, the more she couldn't see him leave in any other way, sad as it was. The violence of his death matched the solemn fierceness of his eyes.

"Yes," she replied with a calm sort of acceptance, "Yes, I suppose so."

Henry was relieved at her answer.

They were in a dark, enclosed alleyway that brought on a sense of claustrophobia between the wet bricks and the lonely lights shining over the two doors on opposite ends of the alley. Moving themselves along, Henry opened the door on the far end, and stepped into a cozy, small apartment, the very same place where Henry had first encountered and received a Sword of Obedience. The ghost that had previously been pinned down was still there, and almost seemed to remember him as they entered the main room. It wasted no time in trying to attack him, forcing Henry to desperately try and fail to dodge the ghost's multiple, quick attacks. Falling to the side, he gritted his teeth in pain as he hit the hard wooden floor. The Saint Medallion against his chest hummed worriedly as he struggled to right himself again.

Eileen, having recovered from her previous stupors, called out in reassurance to him as she began to attack the ghost, drawing it away from him. Using the opportunity, Henry scrambled to his feet using the dining table. Something unusually bright and cheery caught his eye, and he glanced over to see a plump birthday cake waiting untouched on a platter.

_The day of my birthday..._

He cursed himself for the simplicity of his notions, but he dug the package of birthday candles out of his pocket. Eileen had her back to the table as she continued to keep the weaker ghost at bay, but she turned in curiosity when she heard him rip the plastic away from the candles.

"_What_ are you doing?" She asked, failing to see whatever logic was burning away in his head. As he himself could not rightly understand what he was doing, he simply failed to respond. Eileen ducked just in time to dodge a sweep from the ghost and snarled at it, mustering adrenaline to keep fighting it back. Sticking the candles in the cake, Henry felt the Medallion wither away under his shirt, and as the headache begin to wash a thin veil of red over his vision he called out to Eileen.

"Eileen, the door!" he yelled, pointing down the main hallway, "Go, go!"

She did not question him, and merely ducked down to protect herself as she fled. Grimacing, Henry placed the last two candles on the cake.

Nothing.

Just as he should logically expect.

The ghost moaned at him and he turned to follow Eileen out the door just as the circle of candles burned to life on their own. Hoping that to be a good sign, Henry sprinted past the open door moments before Eileen shut it. The incessant moans from the ghost were cut short, and they both settled down to the concrete floor, exhausted and relieved.

"Considering the circumstances...I guess we're doing pretty good, huh?" Eileen mentioned, trying to sound positive. Henry was about to agree; they were very lucky to have survived this far and to still have energy to fight off the various beasts that kept attacking them, hell, they were lucky that there was some sort of...supernatural aura that seemed to nonchalantly help them as well. After all, it sure as hell wasn't Henry who had, with a swish of his hand, magically lit up all those birthday candles at once.

That's when it hit him.

Part of his love for autumn had come with a sort of child-like joy, even if his family was normally quiet and sometimes even ignorant of such milestones. Henry felt his eyes begin to sting. He had lost track of the specific date and time, of course, but at the same time he was positive of his unfortunate suspicions.

"_Henry_," Eileen gasped in worry, "Henry, are you okay?"

Henry gulped down saliva and rubbed away tears that had escaped his eyes with the back of his wrist.

"Yes," he mumbled, lying, "I just...a-at some point, after this started I...,"

He shivered at her touched, but he eventually relaxed as she massaged his arm soothingly until he was able to just barely breathe the rest of his words.

"I turned twenty-eight."

Eileen's arm moved across his waist as she pulled herself closer to rest against his body. She muttered quietly to him, and tried to hide her profound surprise as he leaned into her embrace, muffling himself in her hair.

"It's going to be okay, Henry," she murmured to comfort him, "It will be okay."


	25. Chapter 25

_Parts of this chapter made me sick in writing it, so, take that as a fair warning. On top of that, __it's becoming more of an interesting balance of soft, cute moments and horrific, unsettling happenstances. Hope this works._  


_This should've been up a few hours earlier but go have a look at the recent entries on my LiveJournal to figure out why it wasn't so._

_Oh, and to all those who didn't find the shovel for whatever reason? My condolences. The shovel is the greatest weapon.  
_

* * *

**Chapter 25**

A dog crawled out from behind a car, its long tongue dragging on the ground. Henry got to his feet, gripping the golf club he had chosen in his hand. The bat was still in working order, but the close range it called for and the growing amount of dents in the metal started to devalue the weapon greatly. Not that a golf club promised to last a long time.

Still, it worked effectively, the dog felled rather quickly with a bloody club-shaped indent in the side of its head. Before it could get up again Henry stomped on its neck. Eileen watched him idly, waiting until all was said and done before standing up with the help of the wall. As she did, Henry spotted a Holy Candle near the dog's corpse. Upon picking it up, Eileen hissed out a warning. Looking up, he saw another dog approaching them. Drawing back and away from its long tongue, Henry tripped and fell back on his butt. Pain shot up his spine like lightning and he stifled a cry. The dog was focused on him and did not see Eileen step up from the side. Two hits from the weighted nightstick and the dog fell to the ground and convulsed.

Henry gulped.

Ouch.

Eileen continued to beat it until Henry was able to get up and ensure the dog was dead—though from the looks of it, it already was that way whether or not he had purposely ended it.

Panting, Eileen looked up to a higher balcony that looked over a narrow staircase that led down to where they were. An uncountable number of monstrous dogs struggled and fought over each other—no doubt smelling not only the blood of their fallen comrades but the blood from Henry and Eileen as well. They snarled and barked viciously; the smell must've been _maddening_ to them.

"Come on," Henry urged. There was no use or reason to further risk either of their lives on a fruitless mission. He grabbed her arm and pulled her back to the apartment. She paused for only a moment to stare at the neon letters on top of the building before she followed; no doubt once again recognizing their place and predicament. Remaining silent despite this, however, she dutifully stayed behind Henry as he ducked and dodged the wily ghost that resided within the building.

Sitting in front of the door that was their exit was a plush, clean stuffed cat, complete with a pink sewn on collar. The smooth button eyes gazed at Henry wistfully, and though the Medallion was close to failing him, he bent down to clutch the cat's head as he ran past, tucking the toy under his arm so he could open the door for them to run through. Slamming the door with a grunt, he was profoundly grateful at the sudden cut off of the ghost's power and the calming of the manic Medallion.

As they paused to regain their breath, Eileen gave him a once-over, then lightly covered her mouth with her delicate fingers to hide a widening smile. After Henry had caught on, he stared at her, ever so slightly indignant, as his way of asking _What?_

"I won't question it," Eileen was doing hardly anything to hide her grin, "But you look ridiculous."

Henry continued to stare at her as if mildly hurt by her comment. It wasn't entirely false. In his right hand he clumsily held the bloody golf club with the dented bat, while the toy cat was stuffed under the same arm. In the other he held a good-sized white candle with holy properties—imagine explaining _that_ to the skeptical public! All of that, coupled with the fact that he hadn't shaved in a few days, was bleeding from countless cuts (along with that, the giant dark spot on his shirt as consequence of the bullet wound), and, if you looked hard enough, you could also see the butt of the handgun sticking out from the waist of his pants. He _must've_ looked like a damn lunatic.

Eileen gave a small, quiet laugh that, while genuine, still felt painfully forced. Still, Henry felt the corners of his lips tug upward in tired response. She stepped forward and pulled the cat out from under his arm.

"Here, I can carry this," she announced, tucking the toy in the convenient crook of her cast. Though it could've seemed cumbersome, the soft cat provided a relieving cushion for her, and fit well with little annoyance. "The candles worked, why shouldn't this as well?"

She smiled at him.

Henry quickly turned away but she swore she could see him blush before he did.

The room was different when they left the small alley than the one they remembered. It was large and red—and filled with slugs. Eileen wrinkled her nose, but followed Henry as always as he worked his way through the slugs to navigate the room. It was curious, neither of them recalled crossing through this room before. As for Henry it had looked too much like other rooms he had seen in this portion of the world before. There was a reason for such a strange phenomenon; several, actually. Either they had somehow accidentally gotten lost, or maybe the world had purposely confused them to make them _feel_ like they had become lost when they were really still on the right path.

Most likely of the reasons, Henry shuddered to think, was that Walter's world was growing. The thought made him positively nauseous. As if to answer his thoughts, a loud growling interrupted them. It sounded angry, but at the same time it sounded as though it were groaning and stretching. _In growing pains,_ Henry thought grimly, though there was no precise way to be sure. Not that he wanted to be.

After climbing a flight of what appeared to be fire escape stairs they exited through a door to find Richard's familiarly sad ghost pinned to the ground, struggling and glitching though nothing he could do could wrench himself free from the Sword. In the corner in line with Richard's shoulder, a single Holy Candle rested against the wall. Henry picked it up while Eileen solemnly stared at the ghost, regret filling her eyes. Henry had only to stand near her to shake her trance, and she followed with a small nod. There was no turning back the clock. Richard was dead, that was the only thing they could say at the moment.

They left.

There was little change in the sports shop. Eileen waited as Henry began scribbling on a piece of paper he found on the counter. Looking over his shoulder she could see that he was drawing lots of boxes and arrows. His brow was furrowed in thought and he mouthed things to himself to help jog his memory. It was a map, and he didn't look happy about it.

"We should go back," he said after he absentmindedly plucked at a corner of the paper, "There's something we missed at the elevators."

Although Eileen heard the reluctance in his voice, she forced a small smile on his face to signify that she was okay with that. She didn't quite know if it was good or bad, but, anything to get them out of here, even if it meant retracing steps so they wouldn't make a mistake. Henry led them back, allowing her to enter the elevator first before he followed and pressed the bottom button of the three. Both sets of doors on either side opened, and before Eileen could turn to see the other side Henry took her hand and led her out into a dark alleyway. The doors to the second elevator sat gray and monolithic, without rust along the edges of the doors like the other floors of the same shaft. They opened for them and he stepped inside.

"Just curious," he supplied. Eileen was quiet though it was clear he was avoiding something. Ignoring her quietness, Henry tried to relax as the elevator rose to the top floor. The back doors opened, and they stepped into a long, narrow hallway that turned and twisted in nonsensical ways. Hooting and grunting bounced off the smooth concrete walls, and they looked at each other.

"Just curious?" Eileen asked with a raised skeptical eyebrow. Henry shifted before finally confessing.

"There's a way to go, but it...You can only get there from a ladder."

Eileen blinked and looked distantly sick. "Oh. Have you been up here before?"

"No," Henry said, raising the golf club as a gorilla wandered around the corner. He waited, perhaps too long as the gorilla stood up stiffly and approached them, broad, bulbous chest thrust outward in a stance of dominance. When the gorilla had come into range Henry swung the club in an overhand arc onto its head. Bits of scalp stuck to the bloodied end of the club, but the gorilla's skull was thick and stubborn. Henry swung again with all the force his weary torso could give him and Eileen had to duck to avoid being hit. There was a loud _thwack_, then the unmistakable sound of cracking bone, and the gorilla stumbled before roaring angrily. Recognizing that it was going to charge, Henry quickly swung again, driving the gorilla's force to the wall.

The sudden short stop of the creature hitting concrete rippled through the club and up Henry's arms. Before he knew it the club had given way and the shaft bent in an odd shape, curving back over itself. Hissing through his teeth, Henry stepped back, shaking his hand vigorously to get rid of the pins and needles sensation the club had given him. Eileen pushed past him, beating on the gorilla before it could rise again. The crack in the skull soon became a hole, and with a miniature fountain of blood squirting from a burst blood vessel the muscled monster crumpled and died.

Henry dropped the club. Useless. The bat was soon to follow. They looked at each other.

There was still a lame shuffling in the hallway, no doubt another gorilla. Henry set the bat down quietly and drew the gun from his waistband. Eileen followed close behind him, keeping the night stick firm in her hand. Stopping just before the corner rounded, Henry heaved in deep breaths, and peered around the concrete. There it was, another gorilla, with its back facing them. Good fortune, he supposed, and clicked the safety off.

He stepped out and tentatively began to creep down the hallway. Eileen kept her place behind him, wary. Stopping halfway to where the gorilla was numbly standing, Henry raised the gun, held his breath, and squeezed the trigger.

He _missed!_

There wasn't enough time to curse his mistake. All at once the gorilla swiveled on its heels and bounded towards them. Henry stumbled back into Eileen—somehow his fumbling hand had found hers and he pushed her back with him. Awkwardly they retreated backwards until the gorilla hit them, and hit them hard. Henry remembered a strange sensation, akin to being thrown through the air, and suddenly they hit the wall. He could not only feel but _hear_ Eileen fold and crunch between him and the concrete wall and for a second he felt like his heart had blocked his airway until she cried out in disgruntled, unbridled pain. Her cast had jutted its way into the small of his back and her chin smacked just below the base of his neck. Below he could feel her legs and feet skitter a frantic tap-dance across the floor as she panicked and lost her balance. Feeling his body go numb to dull the pain, Henry gritted his teeth and nearly avoided a whiplash, clutching Eileen's hand hard. Struggling to regain his balance quickly, he had no breath to utter one noise as he came face to face with the gorilla.

Aside from the slipping of Eileen's feet, it was silent. Her raspy breathing quickened, sandwiched between Henry and the wall. Henry was frozen solid, staring straight into the hideous drooling face in front of him. The gorilla allowed him to stare, its almost non-existent nostrils flaring and sniffing the air.

How the thing could see Henry had no idea. Maybe it _couldn't_ see. Its eyes were nothing more than bloody sockets, after all, and the bloody mess traveled down the monster's neck and to its chest where the bulbous protrusion seemed to shower in it. Its jaw was flimsy but present, if one could call ligaments and loose muscle 'present'. To contrast the blood its skin was pasty and clammy, a sharp white. Henry had no reason to believe its head _had_ any skin. But he would much rather stare at its skin rather than its gouged eyes. The eyes made him uncomfortable. Like there was something _more_ to them than just being a hideous addition to the gorilla. If he stared at them long enough he swore that the contours of the cheeks and eyes seemed to be far too familiar to his tastes.

Familiar enough that he swore he saw them every time he glanced into a mirror.

He bit his lip, steeled his nerves, and pulled the trigger.

The gorilla hardly flinched before it stared straight at him and roared, challenging him, calling him weak, reminding him that his life—and her life—were both in the creature's malformed hands. To prove that point, the monster reared back, exposing its bleeding stomach, and raised a tight fist above its head to crush their skulls.

Somehow the gun found itself wedged in the vague gap between the sides of the jaw. Henry pulled the trigger again.

The gorilla fell to the floor, floundering until Henry crushed its neck. Behind him Eileen slid to the ground, gasping as though she had just nearly drowned. He turned on his heel and knelt beside her, putting away the gun. His hands were shaking from the ordeal, so much so that it took a few tries to awkwardly jam the gun into his waistband. Hands still shaking, he reached out towards Eileen's shoulders. She seemed much more fragile now than she had moments ago, and Henry guessed that soon after this more bruises would definitely appear. Shivering fingers barely caressing her shoulders, Henry swallowed hard.

"Hey," he whispered, swallowing again. Eileen opened her eye and looked at him, a thin tear escaping out the side from the pain. Henry placed his hands on her skin, but did not tighten them to a hold. They still shook, and shook terribly, "You okay?"

Eileen didn't answer, merely putting her hand over his so he would stop shaking. He did, but only because he stiffened in surprise. She would've smiled, had things been different.

"Yes," she answered, "I hit my head, but I think I'm okay. The cat softened the blow."

Henry glanced down at the stuffed animal, with flecks of blood and dirt starting to discolor its faux fur. He nodded and managed to just stutter out a _good_. He let his shoulders relax, more from exhaustion than from being at ease. His eyes closed in suit, and he breathed deeply, calming himself down. What he had seen in the gorilla's face, what he had felt, it was an illusion. It wasn't real. Things were certainly symbolic in this world, but _that_, that would be far-fetched, wouldn't it be?

Wouldn't it be?

"Um, Henry?"

He opened his eyes slightly, only seeing his hair in front of him.

"I think...we should get going."

Henry then saw how close his face had involuntarily moved to hers and he jerked away. Eileen gave him a sympathetic look as he stumbled to his feet, nearly tripping and falling over the gorilla's body. She waited until he had regained himself and turned away in his embarrassment before slowly easing her body up the wall until she was standing on wobbly feet. One of her heels felt like it was coming loose and she cussed in her head. If that thing really was coming off, and if it did come off...she'd throw a fit, a tantrum. It didn't matter. She already had a detrimental limp that was getting worse as time went on, losing a heel off her shoe would only make matters impossible. But she could deal with that, right? Ha ha. Dealing with the impossible.

She hugged the stuffed cat closer. A strange smell was at the tip of her nose, no doubt it reached there from when Henry's back had collided with her. Rubbing it away, she breathed deeply to regain herself. Part of her was glad he was too lost in thought (or rest) to notice how short her breath had become while his face lingered so close to hers. Sometimes it was good he was so oblivious, she didn't know how she would be able to take it if...well.

The narrow hallway was silent. Not even outdoor noises seemed to penetrate the walls. When Eileen limped up to Henry to signal their leave, he led her down until they reached a dead end. There were three items; a Sword of Obedience, a box of revolver bullets, and a sturdy, previously owned shovel. Henry's eyes brightened at the sight of the shovel and he picked it up first, weighing it in his hands. It was slightly heavier than he was used to, but it looked strong and faithful.

"That's lucky," Eileen commented lightly. Henry smiled in agreement, then stepped back to pick up the revolver bullets, followed by the Sword of Obedience. Both objects were fairly heavy, but Henry wasn't entirely worried, not yet anyways.

They sat and rested, but only until they were sure they weren't too battered from the attack. Eileen had felt the back of her head and had not seen any blood on her fingers nor felt any lacerations or scabs. Though he was sure his back was soon to be spotted with many different colors of bruises, Henry felt relatively all right.

It wasn't long before they headed back to the elevator, leaving both the broken golf club and the bat behind.

Eileen quietly marveled at the smoothness of the elevators as they descended to the basement floor. The door on her left opened, revealing a small alcove with a ladder leading down to where she heard water dripping from the ceiling. She looked at Henry.

He tried to avoid her gaze but she knew he was watching her. She felt her lips droop in a scared pout, and she hugged the soft toy closer to her chest. How she wished he didn't have to go! Even in a relatively safe elevator, she didn't want to think about what could happen; about things climbing down the shaft to pick at her from the chain linked walls. Even if that never physically happened...she could feel the long spindly fingers of the other source always present at the back of her mind, and the moment he left she knew, she just _knew_ that they would take that opportunity to break into her mind. Or try to. Even if it wouldn't break past her defenses, it would attack them mercilessly, and she _knew_ she wouldn't be able to hold her wall up for long.

"Be back soon," she squeaked, barely above the threshold of her voice, "Be back _safe_."

Henry looked at her. He hated this as much as she did, she could see the overwhelming reluctance in his eyes.

"I will," he said after a while, speaking past a deadweight in his throat, "I—...you too."

Henry clambered down the ladder before he could chastise himself for his awkwardness, taking everything but the stuffed toy. Eileen watched him go, sorrowfully, then buried her face in the plush cat's fur. She tried not to whimper.

It burned a hole in his chest to leave her alone. This place was cruel and unforgiving, there was no telling what could happen to her while he was absent. As much as Henry did not like to dwell on it especially when he ventured away from her, this time the thoughts would not be pushed away. He saw the pain and fear in her eye just before he descended the ladder, the way the expressions this time seemed to be much different though they conveyed the same basic emotion. There was apprehension in them, this time, yes, a sort of apprehension that both caught him off-guard and worried him tremendously. Why was that now placed there? Was there some hidden anxiety that she was keeping locked up, something that made her hate to part now much more so than before?

He almost turned right around to go back to where she was, but that would get them nowhere. Besides, as much as he likened to see her again there was no guarantee that she wanted to see _him_, even with as much anxiety as she seemed to exhibit when he left her. Henry cleared away the pathway blocked by ceiling-reaching fungal creatures and climbed up the ladder beyond, head swimming and distracted. At some point he had picked up a billiard ball and put it in his pocket. Maybe he was going crazy.

A dog circled him and he beat it down with the flat side of the shovel, catching a moth in the process. A normal person would've stayed with her, he told himself, or would've found a way to make her come with. Yes, her dream man, so to speak; he would be able to carry her on his back, in his arms, whatever. Henry could barely even carry _himself_, with his broken tailbone, injured legs, and lingering gunshot wound. Hell, her dream man would've rescued her just as she was being attacked. Henry stared at his reflection in the pool of blood growing from the dog's open neck. Yes, he needed to shave. His eyes were too sunken, far beyond the realm of insomnia, covered by a thick mat of hair. His nose perhaps too large and too straight and pointed. His jawline was square but soft, not strong at all.

Her, a pretty, sociable, friendly and understanding young woman, falling for a scruffy, disheveled, flimsy recluse like him? No, impossible. Even the distant hope of it ever being true was buried behind any horizon Henry wished to see.

But at the same time he didn't give a damn. He didn't _care_ if she liked him because either way he was going to save her from this hell, or try to. God he would try, so very hard. Every time he looked at her now his stomach twisted into knots—_isn't there something more I could do to help?_ The longer he looked the twists in his stomach would soon travel up to his chest—_stop staring, she'll think you're dangerous._ The knots in his chest brought him a sensation of pain rippling out to his lungs and shoulders. It was pain like any other, pain that instilled fear and superstition and anxiety and worry and the nervousness, the damn _nervousness_ that had plagued him all his life. This pain was different, he realized, this pain could be conjured at will and could disappear completely if it wanted to. This pain was superficial, and in a way, welcome to Henry. It was a pain he could deal with, and if he dwelt on it long enough, it wasn't so much of a pain as it was a sweet, intangible sting that quickened his breath and weakened his knees.

If he thought about her hard enough, the pain would disappear completely and turn into a sort of yearning. It went to his head and blurred his vision. He knew that he had to stop thinking of here, there were _monsters_ here that he was killing and had to kill before he died at their hand, but he found a sort of bliss if he let his mind wander. He kicked at a dog and drove it to the wall with the shovel, cutting through its flesh when he did. The dog had almost taken a hold of his leg. That was too close. Henry stood and breathed out slowly, clearing his head.

_Live, Townshend, _he scolded himself, _live, live, live, live. Nothing will matter anymore if you're dead._

_You don't want to be dead._

Unusual movement caught his eye and Henry glanced over. There, in an abandoned shop, was a man. He squinted. No, not just any man, _the_ man, the one in the coat, Walter Sullivan.

Henry moved before his limbs shifted to jello, crouching behind a flimsy barricade of cardboard boxes. Sweat began to bead on the back of his neck. Walter had not noticed him; his back was turned to the pathway. While Henry was thankful he was still apprehensive. The glass from the shop was broken but not shattered, allowing him to hear voices speaking. He held his breath.

A much smaller form rushed into Walter's thigh. Walter did not budge, and simply watched as the small one backed up and raised frustrated fists at the man.

"I'm going to see my mom! Stay outta my way!" the small one, a child, a boy yelled. Henry's stomach churned uncomfortably.

"Who are you, anyway?" the child continued, curious.

"My name's Walter," the man replied in that sickly calm voice he possessed, putting slow, easy emphasis on each syllable to give more meaning to the words he spoke, "Walter Sullivan. It's time to complete the _21 Sacraments._"

Henry could not see well but he could guess the utter confusion on the boy's—young Walter's—face. He had to strain to hear his soft response.

"But...that's _my _name...and what are the _21 Sacraments?_"

Walter raised a silencing hand that swept smoothly across the air to calm and quiet the questioning boy. Alarms starting rising in Henry's head but his feet refused to move.

"Don't worry," Walter calmed, "You'll know soon enough."

Henry tensed and jolted as though he was going to rise to his feet as the back of Walter's coat swept down and the man's arms opened to grab the child.

"_Well_," his voice turned dark and violent, "Let's go and see _Mother!_"

_Go! Go, go now! Get him!_

"_Lemme go!"_ the child screeched before wailing in despair, squirming futilely and kicking at air that wouldn't be harmed despite his efforts, "That _hurts!_"

_Now, Townshend!_

Henry rose to his feet and bolted to the shop, the cries of the child ringing in his head. Walter disappeared into the darkness beyond just as Henry reached the window. His dirty palms hit the pane before he realized the man was gone with the squirming child; he couldn't even see how they would _leave_ the small shop, much less where they would go. Fire welled up in him and he stood back, swearing at the ground. He didn't know exactly _why_ he wanted to interfere; was it for the child's life? No, the child was doomed anyways, wasn't he? There wouldn't be any way to save him. Yet at the same time he felt an overwhelming dread settle over him. Walter had the child.

What now?

Henry took a right, glancing longingly at the elevators on the other side of a barbed wire fence. If only he had a wire cutter to bring, but no; the only pair he had was in his car. He left the area in a daze.

Something glinted off of a worn volleyball amongst many cardboard boxes. The artificial light made it bright and hurtful to look at, but Henry was grateful when he saw the Saint Medallion wrapped around the oddly placed sports ball. Hanging the Medallion around his neck, he looked curiously at the volleyball. The billiard ball weighed his pocket down heavily, as a reminder. He thought back to the note he found, and the basket of volleyballs in the sports shop.

What the hell. It couldn't hurt.

He picked up the ball and rolled it under his arm. It would be cumbersome in battle but he could always retrieve it again. Using the shovel as a strange walking stick, he opened a door to the inside, hearing the dreadful sound of wheelchairs below him. He peered over the grated walkway and gave a miserable sigh; the floor was festering with riderless wheelchairs much as the hospital had been. Taking a deep breath he ran down and did his best to avoid the chairs until he reached the door at the end.

The rooms were somewhat disturbingly empty, but Henry didn't mind, it allowed him some meager chance at rest. The next door he opened led him to the bar room. Feeling exhausted but no less tense, Henry pulled the billiard ball from his pocket and place it on the pool table, watching as it rolled to a stop in what appeared to be the exact center of the table. Strange.

Somehow grateful for the hole, Henry climbed in, letting it take him back to his apartment.

–

_Continuing from yesterday, I'm going to summarize everything that I've learned about Walter Sullivan so far._

_Naturally it was a long way for a kid his age to travel, but he made the trip every week by subway or bus. Unfortunately, someone else was living in this apartment and so he couldn't be reunited with his mother (Room 302)._

_For years he continued to come here, almost like he was possessed, just to peek into the apartment. Eventually the tenants began to complain and treat him badly when they saw him hanging around. Walter began to fear the tenants and see them as obstacles preventing him from seeing his mother._

_As the years passed and Walter matured, he began to be more and more influenced by the teachings of the cult. Furthermore, his obsession with his mother and his feelings of resentment towards the outer world became even deeper. Walter became preoccupied with one particular tract from the cult's "Bible." "The Descent of the Holy Mother – The 21 Sacraments."_

"_By the 21 Sacraments, the Holy Mother shall appear in the countries of the world and shall bring salvation to the sinful ones."_

_After Walter left "Wish House", he moved to Pleasant River, a town neighboring Silent Hill. For a while, he lived the life of a normal student, but he was still filled with bitterness and resentment towards the rest of the world._

_Several years later, he launched his plan there. The 21 murders..._

_July 29_

Henry licked his dry lips and folded the note from the pages of the red diary. The apartment was dull and solemn, very lonesome. The shovel and the volleyball rested near his feet while the Sword was safe in the trunk. There were several other ghosts he had encountered and was sure to encounter again, but as detrimental as they could be Henry didn't feel they were powerful enough to warrant a real threat like the previous four he had pinned. Aside from that the sword was heavy and difficult to carry, especially now with the shovel and the volleyball. Putting the red note away, he picked up his things and sighed. He still felt exhausted, and he knew that if he kept going at this pace he would reach the end of his fuse.

Rubbing his temples wearily, he climbed back into the hole.

–

His mind was in a blur, probably from the exhaustion, as he made he way back to Eileen. He didn't even notice when one of the water pipes in the tiled underground broke and sprayed water on him. When he had reached the two ladders leading up into the elevator shafts he had to stop for a moment and remember which one Eileen was waiting in. Choosing the left, he climbed up and peeked over the edge.

Eileen sat rather huddled to one side of the elevator, her face still buried in the stuffed cat's fur. If her shoulders didn't seem so tense he would've guessed that she was sleeping. Sighing contently, he pulled himself up and out of the alcove.

Her fingers closed slowly but securely on the toy and she raised her head. She must've been fighting the urge to sleep because she looked like utter hell, more so than when he left. The ring under her eye had deepened greatly, and her eye had a vaguely tired but wild look about them, as though she had been on alert the entire time he was gone. A vague sadness fell on his shoulders as he saw this, and he sat down with a groan. Even though he was still in pain, he felt very grateful for the small amount of rest.

Eileen's gaze fell from him to stare into the distance. They let the quiet fall between them, like a sort of warm blanket. As comforting as it was, Eileen was nervous, and sooner than the both of them would've liked, she spoke up.

"Shouldn't we get going?"

Henry blinked and stared at the ceiling for a moment before nodding. Easing his way to his feet, he helped Eileen up to hers before grabbing the shovel and the volleyball. Eileen saw it and looked at him.

"Back to the sports shop?"

He nodded. They changed elevators and followed the trail of dead bodies back to the shop. Henry dropped the volleyball in the basket.

"I don't mean to question you, Henry, but," Eileen watched the ball settle in the basket, "Do you know what we're doing?"

"Finding a way out," he suggested, swallowing, "Hopefully."

She hugged his arm and breathed shakily, "I hope you're right...,"

He pulled away to grasp her hand, and led her out the one door they had not yet touched. It led to a room much like the one that had appeared with several slugs crawling over the walls and floors. Briefly Henry had wondered if this room had always been here or if his guesses about the expansion of the world were really true. He couldn't think about it; he didn't want to think of the possibility of them crawling here for the rest of eternity, continuously finding more, new rooms they had never seen before. Shaking the thought from his head, he pressed on to the next door.

A bell rang, signifying their arrival in the pet shop. A ghost wearing a beanie cap turned and floated towards them, moaning in hunger. Eileen hissed through her teeth.

"Go, go, go!" she pushed him forward even though he needed no second warning. Darting down the aisles of pet food and supplies, they wove around to the back of the shop, then ran for the counter. On the counter, a smallish wire cage sat, open and empty. Henry saw it.

_The cute cat in the pet store._

"_Eileen! The cat!_"

The ghost appeared and shoved the contents off of a shelf in their pathway. Henry tripped and tumbled forward, landing on his side. Eileen froze before she followed suit, spotting the cage on the counter. Ignoring her, the ghost floated past her to hover greedily over Henry. She was about to rush forward to save him, but the pile of bags of dog food deterred her. She couldn't jump, and she was pretty sure that the combination of her stiff outfit and hurt legs wouldn't be able to step over the obstacle without twisting her ankle, thus doing _more_ damage. She gritted her teeth and turned around, following the aisle back and around to the other side.

Henry screamed, but whether or not it was in pain or determination she couldn't tell. If only she could limp faster! All she saw was the back of the ghost hunched over him. Gripping the nightstick firmly, she limped forward, and started assaulting the ghost for all she was worth. For all _he_ was worth, really. Henry cried out again, and she struck the ghost's face, shoving aside. His arms fell to his side, his fingers bleeding from the consequence of being stuck in the ghost's mouth in his efforts to keep it away. Eileen stared, mortified.

"_The cat!_" Henry reminded her despite the blood, "Put it in the cage!"

Though she was reluctant to for more than one reason, she took the stuffed toy away from the crook of her arm and put her former companion in the cage. The door shut before she touched it and she flinched.

Henry kept the ghost away by giving it a strong hit with the shovel, "Come on!"

They hurried out the door behind the counter and away from the ghost.

"Your hands...!" Eileen gulped down the dryness in her throat, letting the nightstick hang by the leather strap around her wrist, "Here, let me see!"

Henry allowed her to grab his hands, pulling them close to her so she could better inspect them. They weren't mangled, but they were bleeding from many small tears and punctures, no doubt from the teeth of the ghost. None of the lacerations were very deep or worrying, but the amount of them was responsible for the amount of blood that made the tips of his fingers slick. It looked to be an absolutely bright red compared with the old blood that had dried to a rusty brick color on his skin from before. Eileen twisted her mouth, and didn't let the hands go.

"Does it hurt?" she asked worriedly.

"Not much," he replied quietly, "Like paper cuts."

She let go of his hands, hiding a small smile at the speed at which they retreated back to his side. There was a newspaper underneath their feet. Eileen squinted at it curiously.

"Hey...back up a little bit."

He did as he was told, following her gaze to the article strewn on the floor. Both of them crouched down to read it. Some of it was torn and smudged, but most of it was still legible.

_According to the Ashfield police, on...at approximately 8:30 in the evening, witnesses near the pet store, Carland's, reported the sound of multiple gunshots, possibly from an automatic weapon. By the time the police arrived, the perpetrator had already fled and the shop owner, Steve Carland, was found dead with a probable submachine gunshot wound to the head. All the store's animals were brutally slaughtered and the store left in extreme disarray. In addition, inside sources say that Carland's heart had been removed, and on his back five numbers were carved..._

As if on cue, as soon as they both finished the article, a horrific sound from the pet store behind them blasted through the walls like they were paper. Gunshots from an automatic weapon peppered the air loudly. Both of them ducked closer to the floor, and as the gunshots continued they began to hear everything.

The sounds of the animals dying. Wretched, helpless barks and meows, terrified into oblivion, _screaming_ in the utmost pain there is, wallowing in confusion and blood as they each died in their cages, one by one. Eileen screamed in horror and clasped her hand over her ear and hunched her shoulders, willing for the noises to stop. The animals screeched and yowled for mercy in a language any creature could understand; they could only imagine the carnage, the mangled remains, and the awful smell that would soon follow as the innocent animals fell. Eileen screamed again to overpower what she was hearing, eventually breaking down into sobs.

Then it stopped.

Merciful, ugly silence.

Eileen huddled close to Henry, willing the awful visions from her mind. Steadily he rocked her back and forth, soothing the both of them at once. They stared at the article, dumbfounded that it was true, that it was something that happened. Eileen remembered hearing stories about it growing up but part of her had always dismissed it as an anomaly or an urban myth.

The picture that accompanied the article showed the interior of the pet shop. There were no bodies, but blood was everywhere, enclosed in yellow police tape.

Closing their eyes, they willed themselves to forget as they sat there, waiting for time to heal them enough before they moved on.

–

"Listen,"

Eileen perked her head up in response, curious as to what Henry was referring to.

"Do you hear that?" Henry paused, and looked as though he was straining himself to hear something. Eileen quieted her breathing (which all together wasn't an easy feat) and listened intently, searching for the abnormal sound Henry was hearing.

The sound of a bell, slow, regal, and traditional.

"What do you think it is?" she asked, trying to pinpoint where the sound was coming from. Henry twisted his face as he tried to think.

"Sounds like...a clock."

"From beneath us?" Eileen added, peering down at what she could see of the bottom floor through the grated stairway. Henry stood up and offered his hand to help her up as well. She took it, still trembling but gathering herself as they descended the stairs. Henry's hand felt clammy and cold; it had not been easy for him to hear the death of poor, unseen animals. Still, his steps remained sure and straight-forward despite the previous and impending horror. She envied him, greatly.

The gongs of the clock did indeed get louder as they descended the stairs, and as Henry opened the door at the bottom the sound rang clear and precise.

He remembered this room. This was where it seemed that gravity was reversed, and that they were walking on the ceiling. There was a steep ramp sliding down from the door to an uneven floor, both things very unpleasant and disheartening for a handicapped woman with swollen feet jammed into tight high-heels. Eileen paused in the open doorway as Henry slid down, holding his hands out and wavering back and forth for balance until the ramp stopped. He turned around back to her and looked as though he was trying to puzzle out how to make it as painless as possible. Climbing back up the ramp, he stood beside her and placed his hands around her shoulders.

"Ready?" he asked, unsure of the outcome.

"_Um_," Eileen replied in a shrill voice as she already teetered from foot to foot, trying to find a stable hold on the head of the ramp. Her hand reached up and unhooked Henry's from her shoulder, allowing for her to squeeze it for reassurance. After a few more moments of struggling to stabilize herself, she finally answered though she was definitely afraid.

"A-As ready as I can be," she stuttered as Henry stepped forward slowly, keeping himself slightly in front of her, "But go slow...!"

Eileen bit her lip even though Henry had kept her in a safe hold. Still she stumbled and stepped awkwardly down the ramp until she stood on solid ground, panting from anticipation and red with frustration and embarrassment. Her feet did not like the descent any more than she did herself, and though she couldn't and wouldn't take her foot out to check she was sure she re-opened a cut or two. She sighed, but nodded to Henry in thanks. He took it as he usually did; silent, and turning away before his expression betrayed any embarrassment on his end.

Directly across a room a clock hung heavy on a door. The pendulum swung steadily as if it had never stopped for anything. Henry approached it by climbing up another ramp, inspecting the clock on all sides. The ringing would not stop, and the time that the clock read didn't even call for the gongs to ring. The hands were stopped at 10:06 precisely, and the latch on the clock face was rusted shut. Henry turned back to Eileen, but she merely shrugged. The noise was loud but not deafening, however, they had nowhere else to go. Reaching around the bulk of the clock, Henry found the door knob and twisted it.

There was a click and the clock stopped cold, from the pendulum to the sound of the bells. The door opened as Henry pulled back. _The door of time was wide open._

Helping her up the ramp, they left the room together, shutting the door behind them.

The room they entered was peculiar. The center was nothing but a pit that sank beyond their vision, and the pathway that bordered the square room was lined with several lockers and doors, many of which were missing door knobs and appeared to not work. To make matters worse, ghosts were appearing from the walls. Henry sucked in a breath and led her forward, lightly jiggling the knobs of the doors they passed to check each one. Surprisingly idle, as if they were only there to keep them on their toes, the ghosts did little to interfere or harm them, and even backed away when they reached the one working door.

As soon as they stepped inside, Henry saw why, and his heart dropped the moment he heard the click of the lock behind them after the door had shut.

Gorillas—a group, no, a _horde_ of them, and all of their soulless eyes were fixated on _them._ Henry did not have time to count before they roared and leaped and suddenly they were overwhelmed. Thank god he had the shovel; it was quite effective in keeping the bulk of the muscular creatures back for only a moment if he raised it to his chest like a bar. Eileen used this moment as effectively as she could. Being behind Henry gave her a small leeway to squeeze and scurry out and away from the writhing mass of angry muscles and fists. Her heart was racing as she stumbled out into the open and turned, watching as the top of Henry's head disappeared in the mob of monsters.

Her grip tightened around the nightstick as anger heated her blood and she charged forward the best she could, swinging the nightstick dangerously. She caught the head of one of the outside gorillas, and as it flinched she continued to beat it to the ground until its skull caved under the ferocity of the attacks.

_Good, good_. She chanted to herself quietly in her head to keep some semblance of balance to her mental state. Henry was in grave danger but she couldn't think about that now, she had to do what she could to free him, she had to attack and kill the gorillas first and foremost. Praying and pleading for his safety would have to come later; if she thought about that she would collapse in a fit of cries and hyperventilation. No, she couldn't _lose_ him, they had come _so far_ and she could feel his tension lift, could feel him relax and even if it was just from exhaustion she wanted to believe that he was relaxing because they were nearing the end of this hell. Soon they'd both be back in the place they belonged, they only needed to fight past this.

Eileen hit the next one forward, and behind its shoulder she thought she could see Henry's brown mat of hair. Rejuvenated, she raised the nightstick to hit again, but something grabbed her arm.

Gasping in shock, she looked in horror as a gorilla sneered at her. Her eye widened as she feared the worst and suddenly she was being dragged across the ground, pain from her biceps twisting slowly around her arm. Two other gorillas broke away from the mob with the one that held her hostage and the gravity of the situation came crashing down on Eileen's small shoulders.

There were no words. She should've screamed but there were no words to tell of her predicament, to shout of her impending doom. The gorilla dropped her on the concrete and she choked. Another hand grabbed the space between her calf and ankle, and as it raised her up into the air she clawed pathetically at the concrete, causing her nails to split and bleed.

It was then that she started to scream.

She thought she had heard something other than the gorillas grunt in pain but before she could focus she was facing the monster's hideous abdomen. The arm in a cast felt like a deadweight, and she let it fall over her head as she hung upside down. Not letting herself go without a fight, Eileen writhed and twisted, reaching forward to try and scratch any part of the gorilla she could reach, kicking out to deter any other gorillas from coming closer though she could almost sense their presence standing there, watching her. Disgusted, the gorilla shook her and she screamed again, partly in rage, partly in anticipatory terror.

"_Eileen!_" Henry cried, muffled by the gorillas still surrounding him.

_He's okay it's going to be okay Eileen it's going to be okay_.

Something rough and crude grasped her, and she hung frozen as time slowed down while she came to terms with what was happening. Lips trembling uncontrollably she looked at her chest and the grubby, malformed hand that was clutching it.

Her screams increased tenfold.

"No!_ Nooo! Henry, Henry help me!_"

The pitch of her voice heightened to an almost unbearable squeak as she twisted to futilely wrench herself away from the monster's grasp. Inadvertently, ever so accidentally, her sight passed over its thighs and it was as though she was going to faint from how surreal the situation seemed though the horrid fingers still dug into her soft skin.

"_Henry, oh Henry please!_" She cried with the last of her strength before she felt too overpowered to speak, "_Help...help...!_"

There was a mournful, pathetically helpless cry of despair, almost inhuman with how endowed with emotion it was. Eileen felt the tears fall from her face for the first time as she heard the scream Henry emitted and she saw her vision begin to swim in black. With the last of what she could control, she folded her free leg, and whipped it out. Miraculously, it struck the gorilla square in the face and its hold on Eileen released. She crumpled to the ground and pitifully tried to worm away, but the blackness in her vision was quickly overtaking her.

_Sleep, sleep!_ It cried, pulling her away from consciousness. She _knew_ that she couldn't pass out now, there was danger all around not just for her but for Henry, too. She _had_ to stay awake, somehow, she had to fight against what had just happened no matter how mortified it had made her, she couldn't let him down now after all this.

But the blackness suddenly gained a strength that Eileen realized within a fraction of a second that although the need to faint was purely her own, this pressure folding down on her to make her sleep was not of her inventions. It was the same probing _otherness_ that had pushed its way into her brain before. Yes, she recognized it, and she tried to push against it. Henry needed her, he was going to _die_ and she had to protect him, somehow, someway, she would push the hurt out of the way for _just a moment—_

_SLEEP!_

Eileen curled into a ball and sobbed.

_Fine! I will._

_I will sleep._


	26. Chapter 26

_A few things I suppose, before we start._

_There are a few recognizable (I'd like to think) songs here. The one that lyrics are actually used is, of course, "Come On Eileen" by the Dexys Midnight Runners. I am a ham. The other song that's only hinted at with pianos and harmonicas is "The Piano Man" by Billy Joel._

_For those of you who are as big of a nerd as I am, you would know that Eric Bossick plays as the main role in the most recent Tetsuo film. Eric Bossick, aka Henry Townshend, often sang a little lullaby to himself within the film to calm himself down. I use that lullaby here like the brazen nerd that I am._

* * *

**Chapter 26**

Eileen stopped screaming and Henry went blind. There were masses of flesh in front of him, obstructions standing between him and whatever had happened to her. He felt as though his body had become skin and bones, weak and feeble. The thought of becoming alone again, the thought of failing to protect her even though she couldn't be more than ten or fifteen feet away from him, the thought that he was _the next one_ to receive a similar fate, the thought that there was no way out...

Henry was terrified.

But for once in his insignificant life, despite his sudden weakness in the limbs, despite his racing heart, despite his wild eyes roving for solace, Henry did not turn away. The weight of the shovel in his hands disappeared, becoming a mere extension of his arms, and he lashed out, pushing the line of gorillas back. Thrusting the shovel forward, Henry gutted one, and with a vile swing that eviscerated it, slammed into the chest protrusion of another. The other gorillas started screeching and hooting in alarm, but Henry ignored them. A hole had opened up in the line of monsters and he barreled forward, shouldering the wounded one aside.

There, in front of him, were the three gorillas. Eileen was splayed crookedly on the ground, and one of them was kneading its fingers in her scalp as it started to pick her up by her hair.

Henry screamed, but couldn't name the layers of emotions that powered the cry. Without a second thought he charged forward, feeling his eyes burn with hot tears. The gorilla dropped Eileen and loped backwards out of the way. A smaller one joined it, and the largest of the three, no, the largest of _all_ the gorillas there, growled and stood to its full height, taller and much stronger than Henry. But he, a weary, soft man with nothing left to lose, did not stop.

The low _whizz_ that hummed through the air as he swung the shovel was music to Henry's ears. There was a reason he wasn't buckling in fear now; he had _seen _it, had _seen_ the sickening reaction to Eileen between the monster's legs. Henry didn't have to be smart to put the pieces together, and the result only buried his fear and replaced it with raw hatred. He didn't care if the gorilla could smell it off of him, in fact, he _wanted_ this monster, this _thing_ to know how far Henry was willing to go to make sure it was dead.

Flinching in surprise from the ferocity of the attacks, the gorilla hopped in rage and swung at Henry. He dodged poorly, and the strength of the blow sent him tumbling over Eileen's unconscious form. Neither of the combatants wasted any time in recovering as the other apes watched in grotesque interest.

The gorilla loped forward and closed its fists together to smash down on Henry's unprotected head. Henry swung the shovel, slicing a thigh and attacking the place that the monster deserved it most. Instead of screaming in pain, though, it roared in rage as it backed up, blood dripping down its leg. Pulling his body up, Henry stood on his feet. The adrenaline rush his anger was giving him was leaving, and he knew he had to finish this quick before everything he had just done turned out to be foolishly futile. He thrust the shovel forward but the large gorilla stepped out of the way and reached out, grabbing the lapels of Henry's shirt, pulling him forward.

Henry snarled.

"_Fuck you._"

His long leg curled and kneed the gorilla in the abdomen. It dropped him, and with a powerful swing of the shovel Henry severed its head in a spray of blood splatting in a line drawing back to him. The head rolled in front of the crowd of shocked gorillas, and the huge body crumbled not unlike Eileen's when she collapsed.

Henry saw none of this. As soon as he saw the body waver he turned and fell to his knees at Eileen's side. No time to check for a pulse, no time to see if she had gotten severely hurt. Tears were rolling down his face and the fear that had previously been buried soaked back into his limbs. He did not know how strong he was, but he will not argue that he was surprised when, using the shovel as a lever and shield, he picked Eileen up into his arms with relative ease. Behind him the subordinate gorillas were roaring and hooting in rage, and he knew he did not have long to get up and get both of them out of here. Curling her shoulders close, he protected her head as he bolted to the door. One of the gorillas leaped, missing his heel by a breath.

Shouldering the door open and kicking it shut, Henry fled like mad. Her body was still warm but that didn't bring any comfort to him. The room passed by in a blur; there were stairs he almost fell and tumbled down, _maybe_ he heard a ghost cry in the distance, but as the panic started to settle in he couldn't be sure that he wasn't just hearing things. Another door, he was in an alleyway. No, he was in _the_ alleyway, it was littered with dog and moth corpses. His lungs started to protest and wheeze, and he felt sticky, hot saliva on his tongue. One more door.

His legs buckled underneath him and he collapsed, folding his body over Eileen's so she fell softly. Laying her gently on the floor, he heard the clattering of haywire empty wheelchairs below. Gasping for air, Henry laid flat on his back and stretched his limbs out, panting and coughing. His legs and arms ached, and his lungs would not recover for a long time. Closing his eyes, he struggled to soothe himself, controlling his breathing and willing his heart rate to lower.

It occurred to him then why he had escaped relatively unscathed. Of the gorillas that were surrounding him, only a few seemed to deal relatively harsh blows even though he could easily avoid them by ducking. They had pressed hard against the shovel that Henry kept to protect himself from them, but neither of them made any flanking attacks. Henry could've very easily died back there if they had wanted him to.

But they didn't want him to.

They wanted Eileen.

They wanted Eileen, and they didn't want him dead for it. To torture him? Because it wasn't the proper order in the murders that Walter Sullivan had been performing? Henry didn't and didn't want to know. Hell, he didn't even want to know what had happened to her just beyond his vision, but, being as stupid and insensitive as he was he'd probably end up at least asking anyways. That is, if Eileen was still alive.

Still wheezing, Henry lifted himself up on his weak limbs and pulled them close to Eileen's side. The patch of gauze that had been covering her eye was gone, having gotten ripped off at some point. He stared remorsefully at her face, taking in the detail. Her right eye was swollen shut, and the bruise on it spread down her cheek and up her forehead. Her eye and cheek was swollen and purple, and her brow was a dark red. There was a craggy scab that followed up her cheek bone, ending at the bridge of her nose. It puffed up the side of her face, adding to the gruesome asymmetry. Though he wanted to do the opposite, Henry brushed short locks of her hair away from her injured eye, in case they would irritate it. Who knows if she would ever open that eye again to see out of it. Maybe it was a lost cause. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment to fight back more tears.

Gently, Henry held his breath as he placed his fingers on the crook between her jaw and neck.

A pulse.

She was alive.

Gingerly, Henry steeled himself and, biting his lower lip, began to carefully search her for any wounds or extra bruises. No, he didn't want to know what she would say to him if she suddenly woke up to him lightly running his fingers over the skin of her arms, legs, and head.

He avoided her torso at all costs, unable to bear the thought of disrupting or betraying her. The straps of her dress that fastened behind her neck had come undone, but, due to sweat and grime, the front of her dress stayed where it was, for now. His fingers itched to re-fasten the straps, but he stopped himself.

He needed to find a safe haven, and then a hole. The bar wasn't too far off from here. Stretching his muscles, he again used the shovel to help slide Eileen into his arms. He felt weak but the thought of rest allowed him an extra boost of energy. Stepping slowly down the stairs and leaning on the railings for extra support, Henry waited until the wheelchairs were relatively out of the way before he stepped onto the floor. Managing, somehow, to reach the door before any wheelchair had reached him, he left the room to the short alley piled with garbage bags.

_Almost there_. He sighed gratefully. Leaning Eileen against the wall, he gave her a tired glance before opening the door.

Henry swore under his breath and swung the shovel in front of him. Another gorilla. It charged him on sight, failing to see the shovel in his hands until the moment it impaled itself. Henry gave a push and ran it into the pool table before tearing the shovel away. Billiard balls scattered and knocked into each other as the gorilla collapsed. It was still alive, though, and Henry gripped its flesh and dragged it out into the alley. It would bleed out soon enough. Dragging Eileen to her feet, he draped her arm over his shoulder and shut the bar door. He wasn't satisfied until he had dragged the stools in front of the door to make a flimsy barricade.

Good. Finally.

Henry slid her limp body to the far wall. Though he was tired, panic was still rampant in his bones. Piano music accompanied by a stringy harmonica played from an old radio in the corner, but his mind was not in a place to hear or recognize the song playing. His hands were trembling and even though he could've easily passed out from exhaustion, his mind wouldn't let him. He had to be _here_, he had to be with Eileen. He couldn't even leave her to go into the hole to retrieve things that would make her better; a new gauze pad for her eye, another blanket, shoes, pillows, anything.

"Eileen?" he whispered fearfully. No answer, of course. Her body looked crooked and unkempt against the hard floor. Biting his lip and shaking his head to keep it clear, Henry quietly began apologizing to her as he unbuttoned his shirt. Balling it up in such a way that there was at least one relatively clean side, he lifted her head and shifted his shirt underneath it. It looked crude and unacceptable, and a sting rose up in his chest, reminding him of the dilemma his mind had put before him when he was separated from her.

_A normal person would've been able to provide better._

_No, a normal person would've been able to keep running with her in their arms._

_In fact, none of this would've happened. It would be like she never would've screamed because a normal person would've _protected _her and she wouldn't have the need to scream your name in her final throes of desperation._

Henry's expression sank, and his frustration with himself pulled him away from her. He began to pace the floor of the bar incessantly, hands buried in his hair and digging into his scalp.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid! How could you, Henry? How could you let it come to this?_

Eileen's screams echoed so greatly in his head that Henry winced and whimpered in a feeble attempt to remove them from his mind. They were piercing and horrid, the very definition of despair itself. And, awfully, above all, they were crying his name, and he couldn't rush to her side. In his mind's eye he still couldn't see her, couldn't see the torture she was going through that brought her to the brink like it did.

_You said you would protect her and now look! This is the second time! The second time you let her suffer!_

She had a pulse. She was alive. She was going to be okay.

_She doesn't have to wake up. She doesn't have to stay with you anymore. She doesn't have to feel safe around you. She doesn't have to like you. She doesn't have to look at you. She can leave._

Why hadn't she woken up yet? If she remained in a coma, what would he do? What _could_ he do save wait for the man in the coat to take him as well?

_Oh god she is going to die_.

No, he couldn't think like that!

He couldn't think.

He pulled himself over to the bar and dug his elbows into it as he clamped his hands on his head. His temples were pounding and the worry that was welling up in his gut was sure to about to give him a heart attack if not drill a hole up into his chest. Scrambling to focus on anything but what he was torturing himself over at that moment, his mind traveled to the song on the radio and grasped at the crackling lyrics.

_Come on, Eileen_

_Oh, I swear, at this moment,_

_You mean everything._

Struggling to figure out if it was irony or just pure cruelty that that particular song was playing, Henry shut his eyes and tried once again to focus on anything else. Impossible. He cried again, feeling himself being doomed to fall into insanity while he was waiting for her to waken. Should she wake up she'd definitely tie him back down to reality again, to the cold, sweet ground where she too dwelt. Ha. Like that'd ever happen. Reality said that he was trapped here with a dying girl in a coma, waiting for her to rise.

Waiting games, all of this was becoming one big damned waiting game.

He wept into his hands.

He was losing a simple waiting game.

Something told him in the back of his head that even if she did wake up, it would not be the same Eileen that fell asleep. Maybe it would be, on the surface, but skin cells are easily shed, and soon he'd have a stranger following him. He hated himself for feeling right even when he had no evidence to support these...accusations. There was no possible way he could ever look at Eileen and see the hate in her eyes that he was envisioning now with a shudder, no matter how much he worried over she'd react to his incompetence. Hate was not a part of Eileen, but there had been times recently that he had glanced at her to reassure himself of her safety and had subsequently felt a dark chill follow the curvature of his spine.

It wasn't her fault, but it was somehow caused by her. Her presence had drawn in this...thing that was following them now. So far it didn't wish to show itself to the world but he had felt it and he was damn sure she had felt it as well. She had mentioned before about feeling ill at ease with more than just the atmosphere here, hadn't she? Perhaps she had felt it in a deeper way than he would ever understand. Perhaps that was what gave her the occasional thousand-yard stare. What did she see when she gazed off into the distance like that? Death? Corruption? Gore? Rape? Dear god let that last one not be true. Henry wished he could claw his eyes out, wished he could cause himself physical pain to put himself at equilibrium with the sorrow in his mind.

"Oh god, this song...,"

Henry's neck tensed. She was awake. Her voice was quiet but heavy, agonizing over the distant nostalgia that she most likely will never lightly laugh about again. Opening his eyes, he listened to her speak, every word tying a brick around his throat and forcing his vocal cords shut.

"I was born around the time this song was written. People at school would always sing it to me, for a time..." Eileen fell silent as she listened intently, sooner rather than later biting her lip in raw loneliness.

"Good god...," tears crept into her voice, "Is anybody even there?"

This moment, finally. A chance to disappear and become the wallpaper, a place where he belonged. A chance to make Eileen forget about him, forget about his failures and muster the strength to survive steadily onwards. A chance to set things right from afar and help things return to the way they used to be.

But did he want that?

Slowly he denied the chances and slid away from the bar to walk to her side, sitting down rather calmly to his surprise. Eileen's breaths were shallow but fast, and she flinched as he crossed his legs near her. He was not sitting in the better area of her vision, and she couldn't turn her head to properly face him without agitating the massive bruise dominating the right side of her face.

"Henry?" she breathed, "Is that you?"

He struggled to speak, but sooner gave up and shifted, pulling himself forward so that she could see him. She stared at his face intensely before she confirmed he _was_ Henry, and then her breathing slowed. Relaxing to allow herself to lie there for a while, she began to uneasily sit up. Henry took her arms almost immediately, gently helping her rise. She grabbed his arm and gasped in pain, allowing him to shift and fold her body when needed. Steadily he righted her, but before he could rest her against the wall she gasped again, a seething, sharp intake of air that was more a cry of mortified shock than the sound of pain he was getting used to. She let go of him immediately, clutching her chest in an almost animal-like ferocity and need. Henry curiously glanced before shutting his eyes and withdrawing from her completely. He had forgotten about the loosened straps of her dress, and thus he now felt stupid for leaving it be.

"What happened?" Eileen whispered, holding the straps against her chest to keep herself decent, "What _happened_?"

Henry bit his tongue and used the pain as jump-start to force himself to talk, "You were unconscious. I had to get you out of there,"

"H-How," Eileen asked, shivering as the memories started to overtake her mind with powerful clarity. A feeling like unwanted pain spread out from areas she'd rather not think about and she curled over herself in fear, "_How_, _how_ did you get out of there? How did _I_ get out of there alive and—,"

"I don't know," Henry gulped, putting his words in as she momentarily choked on a poorly executed breath, "I just...you're safe now."

"Why," she sobbed helplessly, "Why am I here? This...this is _worse_ than death," Snot glistened on her lip and she struggled to wipe it away on her shoulder without letting go of the straps of her dress. Henry watched in silent, pure pity. She looked ugly, she really did. The bruises ruined her skin, the blood heightened the despair on her face, the crooked and swollen limbs pulled her petite figure into a surrealist's fantasy, and the mats in her hair turned her from a young woman to a crazed hag. The smell from her was unbearable; she reeked of fear and hopelessness as the pus drying on her wounds stagnated and yellowed, and soon Henry couldn't even tell if the scent of her shampoo was even there, buried beneath all the filth and injuries.

"What happened, Eileen?" Henry spoke the words and immediately regretted it. She flinched as though he had whipped her, and a dry hacking followed with several deep sobs that almost threatened vomiting. He shrank away and thought about fixing the barricade on the door. Of _course_ she would never answer him when it came to that, idiot! Eileen trembled uncontrollably, holding herself tightly. Henry gulped. He should leave, he should _really _leave.

"I don't know," Eileen moaned, stopping him from rising to his feet, "I don't _know_, it was holding me upside down and then it...it reached out and i-it _grabbed_ me and I started screaming and...nothing. I'm here, suddenly."

She tried to hide her face in her limbs, but it was then that she realized the gauze over her eye was gone as well and she wailed in despair. To say that her eye hurt would be an understatement; without the gauze the wound was exposed and anything it lightly brushed up against brought searing pain across her face.

Watching her cautiously, Henry kept his limbs to himself as she raised her hand to her cheek, fingers and lips trembling. Uneasily she gingerly felt around the wreck of the right side of her face, wincing and whimpering whenever she poked something particularly sensitive and painful. Her quivering lips pulled down in despair, aging her ten years before she finally gave in and covered the entire side of her face with her hand. Her despair contorted her as she started to wail helplessly, bending over and shrieking every other heavy breath she took.

Henry was startled but not altogether surprised. He watched her through mortified pity, itching to reach out and hold her the way he was supposed to from the very start, but her wretched heaving seemed to keep him at bay. Instead he simply remained quiet, biting his lip as her screams pounded in his head and quickened his heart rate. He could feel the biting pain nibbling at the back of his eyes; he wanted to cry. Everything that was happening to her, everything that was making her do this made him just want to sit and cry as if it would solve their problems.

Eileen whimpered and pushed her hair away to gain a small measure of comfort.

"Did anything else happen?" she blubbered as her shoulders heaved harshly, hating the possible answers he could give, "Did they do anything else to me?"

Henry tried to soften his voice to hold as much sympathy as he could, but he wasn't sure it worked at all, "No, not that I saw."

Silence.

Despite herself, she relaxed. She was far from feeling alright, but he could take comfort in the fact that she had relatively recovered.

Holding the straps of her dress precariously in one hand, she squirmed, struggling to fasten them again. Henry shut his eyes again and turned away. Eileen dealt with the difficulty for no more than a few seconds before giving up. Part of her wanted to just let the straps go, to not even bother with trying to fix them. After what had happened and through the violated pain that was still spreading through her breasts, she felt as though any attempt to right herself to decency again was futile and wouldn't be expected of her even from the metaphorical ghosts that haunted her mind to keep reminding her that a normal life had been lived and was still possible after all of this.

She let the straps drop. They did not leave her completely, but they exposed the curve of her breasts enough to make her feel like she needed to rush backstage in embarrassment. Eileen stared down at her body grimly, at how the reds, purples, and blacks broke and smudged her once-perfect skin. Had she not known that there was a mole on her collarbone she would've counted it as collateral damage; there wasn't a place she looked where something hadn't changed and her familiar skin patterns failed to show through. Hell, she bet if she looked in a mirror she wouldn't be able to see the freckles on her nose that she despised so much. Even that would be a welcome sight to her, anything to let her know that she was still herself after all this.

Whimpering again, she gathered up the straps and held them behind her neck. Holding her breath, she closed her eyes as she spoke again, feeling as though she had awoken inside a dream.

"Henry, would you...," she gave an exasperated sigh, "Um. Fix this?"

Henry slowly turned around. It was obvious he was nervous as his blunt, roughened hands brushed the back of her neck. She shivered at his touch as his clumsy fingers fumbled with the fine hook and loops at the end of the straps. Patiently she waited for him, closing her eyes and focusing on feeling his innocent, anxious hands lightly brush her shoulders and neck. Half of her brain screamed for her to flinch and run, to coil herself away from the possible touch of a man that could easily take advantage of her. The other half scolded her for thinking so, she _knew _how Henry worked, she _knew _his personality. He was too shy to think of a thing, even with the content of the song that was fading away on the radio. Such a gesture he was doing was sweet to her tongue, a wonderful change from the coppery taste that plagued her so often now. Relishing in how he fumbled and stuttered low apologies, Eileen kept her eyes closed. It was all she could take from this world, and Henry wasn't even a part of this hell, or so she thought. Her cautious side roared again, and the happy thoughts cowered in the face of horrific logic. Maybe Henry was putting an act up. Maybe she had been fooled. She frowned.

"Is that...good?" he asked. Eileen bent forward and stretched her back, making Henry feel uncomfortable as the scars across her shoulder blades morphed and twisted with her smooth movements.

"Yes." she finally said, distant. He retreated, finding his makeshift pillow of a shirt on the floor. Grasping it and unfurling it, he shook whatever dust and grime he could out of it before he caught Eileen's attention again. She glanced behind her curiously as he gestured shyly with the shirt. Blinking a quiet affirmation, she forced herself not to flinch as he draped the shirt over her shoulders. A sleeve was charred, the right side was stiff with dried blood, it was damp with sweat and filthy with decaying flesh and other bodily excrement from the monsters, but at the same time it felt as though he was putting her childhood blanket around her. The smell that the shirt carried meant nothing to her; as long as it was there she felt as though the black thoughts that had forced her down before were dampened.

Henry backed away to allow her space as she positioned herself to rest against the wall. Unsure at first, he seated herself next to her, her uninjured eye facing him. It was more decent and respectful to her, he was sure. He watched her carefully, studying her distant, thoughtful expression so solemn and dark. It didn't suit her, but it didn't seem foreign on her face and he wasn't all together surprised when she spoke.

"Worse than death...," she repeated quietly, shaking her head, "It would've been too easy to die in my apartment, wouldn't it?"

The bricks in Henry's throat closed his voice away. He had no choice but to listen, and listen he did.

"And even if I would've died, it wouldn't have changed anything, would it? I'd be...I'd be like the woman in the subway," Eileen choked over her words, "And there'd be no escape...,"

She wasn't crying, but the desperation and sadness lined her voice as though the tears were simply just around the corner in her mind, "I woke up in the bar and I wondered if it was all a dream when I heard that song. I _hoped_ it was all a dream. But nothing had changed from when I fell asleep, I was still...still beaten to hell. And you were still here, with me.

"Is this really more than just a dream, though?" she furthered, the helplessness in her voice growing while the pitch and her relative calm remained the same, "It feels no different. I can't help being here, I get stuck when I need to run, I can't control anything around me, I'm alone, I don't understand anything that's going on, and there's no way out...,"

She paused.

"It's not a dream. I can't wake up. I'm alone...,"

Henry shifted next to her. A small, involuntary gurgle protested in his throat and she glanced over to him, studying his form before continuing.

"Yes, you're here. But...are you with me?" Her voice was a whisper, the question genuine. Henry felt his insides tie itself into a massive knot in his torso. He could predict the words she was going to say, and he hoped to whatever benevolent being still existed that he was completely wrong in his ultimate predictions. She was thinking out loud, thinking to him, whatever she said was unchained and unadulterated. Henry wanted to hide, but he stayed put.

Eileen shook her head, "No, you're with me, I know, I don't mean to...antagonize you...but I...,"

Her voice drifted. Henry followed it.

"Sometimes I see you looking at me and I wonder what you're thinking," she breathed quietly, speaking as though she didn't really believe he was there and listening, "I wonder what you see in me when I fall behind, what you look at when my eyes are closed and I'm pretending to sleep.

"I wonder what you see...," she smacked her sticky, chapped lips together as she continued to speak into her perceived nothingness, "If you still see me as the girl who lived next to you, if you see me as Eileen Galvin and not...," she bit her lip, "20/21."

She let silence pass a ruling on her words. It did not occur to Henry that he could speak before she spoke again, barely a whisper laced with apprehension.

"If I am still pretty, or if I've become a pus-spewing _monster_ with a countdown ticking above my head—to the time where I finally...stop."

Eileen swallowed hard with a wince, "Do you look at me and wonder how much longer it will be before I won't drag you down anymore?"

There was a tone in her words that straddled between the drawn line of how rhetorical she had meant for it to be. Even with his depleted social skills Henry could still feel such a tension in her voice. Signals flared in his brain, he should respond, he _had_ to respond. Here she was, all broken and crumpled on the floor of a bar located in an alternate reality. The shadows played tricks on her skin and his flimsy shirt draped over her shoulders, mutating her form in a sullen sort of surrealism found only in the depths of a madman's nightmares. Vulnerable and slipping, here she was, a victim of the crime of kindness she barely remembered.

Henry reached his arms out. Previous experience dictated that his vocal cords would be useless, and he could still feel the bricks weighing them down. It was the only thing he could do or think of.

The bare skin on his forearm brushed against her shoulders and she recoiled on reflex. Both of them froze, and Henry felt his throat tighten and his heart plummet to his bowels. Slowly Henry retreated from her like a dejected animal, but she stopped him.

"You're afraid," she told him.

He froze again.

"You're scared of your own shadow...and moreso mine."

She gave him pause to realize the truth in her words before forcing him to look at her when she raised her voice and looked at him in turn.

"Henry," her voice was heavy and thick with bold sincerity, "You're the bravest man I know."

A moment of time elapsed where Henry did not process anything. It was as the dream she described before where he did not understand nor did he possess control over one single thing. Then, in the gap of his reality her words came in such clarity that he felt like he had crashed to the ground and left a crater in his world. His chest swelled and he felt like crying even though he didn't know why.

She was staring at him, and he desperately searched her face to unearth any sort of falseness or deception that possibly lied within, but he found none. She was crying in an uneven sort of pattern as consequence of her asymmetrical face. The tears out of her bruised eye were small, hot, and discolored. On the other side they were fat and shone excessively in the dim light filtering in from the slats of the blinds over the window.

He opened his mouth to speak, to question her judgment, ask her _why_ she thought so, he _knew_ he was a coward. But his vocal cords held true to his presumptions, and only a small cry emitted from his dry lips. Damn him.

Damn all of this.

Eileen let him pull her into a weak embrace, though he couldn't even call it as such. She felt brittle in his arms, and his arms seemed even moreso. Her breathing was as deep as her body allowed, but still it was shaky and almost absurdly uneven. Cradling her like porcelain, he would've liked to believe he was trembling less than he was, but his fingers were barely touching the skin of her arms they were shaking so badly.

Memories of watching her through the hole in his wall flooded him. Was he sick? Was he a horrible person? Did he really feel for her much deeply than he could say, or was it a buried lust that gripped him so strongly in his subconscious that he was acting as though he was an innocent lovestruck puppy? He couldn't search his mind for the answer. Every time he tried to reassure himself that he wasn't prone to such things he could only see the tall, muscular gorilla towering over Eileen, towering over her unsheathed and unforgiving. As much as he hoped to hell or heaven or whoever was in charge that that could never possibly be him, he couldn't see himself as anything but.

His hands curled tighter around her as he felt a pain rise in the back of his throat to the roof of his mouth. He had to let go of her, before it was too late, before he lost himself to unearthed urges if he even had such a thing. The danger of them surfacing was much more real to him than his frightened racing heart. She was going to leave him eventually anyways, he could feel it, much as he relished in her letting him hold her. It was better to let go now so she wouldn't think poorly of him later.

Good god, he felt the tears from before creeping down his cheeks.

Eileen, acutely aware of the nature of his internal conflict though he said nothing, shifted away from his grasp. Henry let her, his arms holding only the air around her. Before he could fall away and weep piteously into his knees, Eileen cupped his jaw, leading him to rest his head on her collar. On instinct his arms closed around her waist, pulling her close in the desperate need of a child to their mother even though she winced at the movement. Henry wept as Eileen combed through the knots and dried blood in his hair, silent and solemn. She urged no words, and did not punish his childish sobs.

He forgot where he was. The throbbing fear of death and torture still pounded against the walls of his gut, reminding him that he wasn't quite comfortable or safe here. Pain knotted itself in the gaps of his spine, he was weak and unable to fight for himself much longer. Exhaustion pulled his eyelids down and stung the skin on his face, but even though he couldn't relax there was a sort of treasured cheer at being allowed one skip on the soundtrack that had them running at breakneck speeds against impossible, traumatic odds, running from an unspeakable evil that was closer with every step they took. Henry didn't care that he felt pathetic crying in the arms of his next-door neighbor. She probably had had her fair share of ruthless self-pity, and, as Henry would've hoped, didn't blame or wish to scrutinize him. Her fingers were light and gentle as they passed through his hair; sometimes they flinched if they brushed too briskly against him due to the split and brittle nails she had gained in her desperation to wrench herself away from the gorillas. Sometimes he flinched if she tugged too hard against his scalp. She never said a word, simply untangled her fingers and placed her hand warmly on his head for a time before she continued. Henry's eyelids fluttered, but he was unable to sleep despite his overwhelming exhaustion.

Eileen's hand then moved from his head to his cheek, her thumb hooking under his jaw. A string of fears tied themselves in his neck, ranging from the nervousness at her touch to a fear of her attacking him and ending him right there. It shouldn't have sounded logical but it was all too real of a possibility to him though nothing had truly happened to confirm his suspicions yet. Henry swallowed hard and held his breath. Perhaps indignant or insulted by this, Eileen shuddered as she breathed shallowly, as though she were holding back more tears or screams. She pushed his face away then, and he pulled himself back up to a sitting position, meek and worried.

There was an odd atmosphere about the both of them, barring any more contact between them. It hurt on a deeper level, they both trusted each other but there was such a thick wall of caution surrounding them as a result of this world that whatever trust they held was pushed into the closet for brighter days. It didn't feel right, at least not to Henry. But he couldn't lower his guard for anything, not even the kindest person he had personally ever met. He tried to stifle a cry of pain. Steeling his heart in such a cold way stabbed him in the chest. He could only imagine that Eileen was forcing herself to do the same. Trying to think in any other direction threatened a collapse on his mind.

He didn't remember pulling his legs underneath him again, but he found himself standing up, tottering slightly. The shovel lied on the ground next to Eileen, and she was avoiding the urge to look up at him. Backing up, he returned to the bar, suddenly wishing he hadn't pulled the chairs away so he could sit. Instead he was drawn to another memo left on the edge of the table. He must've missed it before, but that was probably easy for him to do given the circumstances. Sliding it closer to him, he read it.

_The boss said we had to change our phone number 'cause of all the wcomplaints about the weird noises. Now we have to change the store sign on the roof. What a pain._

_By the way, the number is the last four digits of the new phone number. Not too smart if you ask me..._

There. A reason to go back to the room and get away from the heavyset awkwardness weighing down on his temples. He glanced over at Eileen, slouched over her scraped knees and staring at the space between her inward-pointing toes.

"I have to go back," he said, again speaking past bricks in his throat. She blinked, and looked up at him. He blinked in surprise; strange how he wasn't expecting to see a terrible bruise in place of a bandage yet he should've remembered that it had been torn off. Her gaze turned from forlorn to hurt at seeing his reaction, but didn't pull her eyes away. He wanted to say more to explain himself, but he simply swallowed and turned to leave, feeling her eyes watch him until the hole sucked him in.

–

Henry felt incredibly groggy as he woke up. Rolling over to the side of the bed, he slid off and knelt at the windows. Pushing the strings of the shades away, he peered up to the billboard on top of the building where Eileen was waiting. It hadn't changed from his sketchy memory. He pondered for a moment, peering at the sign until he swore he could see workers scraping the old billboard away though he knew that wasn't true.

The memory of dialing the wrong number for appliance service stung him like a bee out of the blue, and though he cringed it brought a faded idea to the front of his mind. Using the sill to aid him in standing up, he crossed over to where the phone was. Dialing the old number from memory, he sat on the bed and waited until an automated response greeted him.

"_The phone number you are trying to reach is no longer in service._ _The new number is 555-4890."_

Henry scrambled to scrape together paper and pen, just managing to catch the tail end of the number before the call dissolved into static. Putting the receiver down before it hurt his ears, he folded the small note of the last four numbers and slipped it into his pocket. Leaving his bedroom, he covered a yawn with his wrist, wrinkled his nose at the smell that emanated from his skin, and entered his bathroom.

He had to dig deep in his cabinet, even ducking down beneath the sink. Pulling out as much gauze and cotton that he could find (which was a miserable amount for what he needed) and finding a previously hidden roll of bandage tape, he juggled the items together in his arms. Simple. The hard part would come later when he would have to confront Eileen.

Though his pockets were getting full, he passed by the trunk in the front hallway and closed his hand around the door to the hole when something caught his eye.

There was a dark line stretching down his door. Henry turned and stared, watching as the line traveled further down until it almost reached the floor. Curious, Henry left the medical supplies in a pile on the counter, and took out a Holy Candle from his pocket with some matches from the counter. Approaching the door with great caution, he used his foot to poke the soaked carpet at the bottom of the door. It looked red, like blood. His eyes traveled up the trail of blood until it stopped on the lower curve of the peephole. Chewing his lip thoughtfully, he leaned forward, ignoring the small warning that was beating in the back of his mind.

He honestly didn't know what he was expecting to see when he peered into the hole. The super? Richard's ghost? More hand prints or bloody letters on the wall? Walter himself to be staring back at him?

Whatever it was, nothing could've prepared him for what he really saw.

It was as if he was looking into a mirror. Perhaps a funhouse mirror to put it better, but it was the kind of funhouse found in horror films. Instead of a poorly proportioned abomination of his body staring back at him like any normal carnival, there was a bloodied husk of his body swaying in his vision. Henry choked and sputtered in confusion and fear. He was on the other side of the door. He was just standing there, him, Henry Townshend, in the flesh. His hand moved to his chest, clutching his skin to assure himself at his reality, but the more he stared at the swaying man in fear the more he couldn't decipher which side of the door he was on. The Henry on the outside of the door had his head thrown back, exposing his throat. It seemed elongated and unnatural, the rings of the trachea stood out too much to be healthy. On top of that, deep red scars ripped his skin apart, severing the tendons in his neck and staining the collars of his shirts. Blood poured out from the scars without discrimination, mottling everything. Henry's hand moved from his chest to his throat to reassure himself that the scars weren't there, that the numbers weren't carved into his flesh.

_21/21_.

He could hear himself muttering and whimpering as his throat quivered, but he couldn't look away from the peephole. There was more to see, so much more to see. Everything about this other Henry was as perfect as it was on him. Each hair of scratchy stubble on his face, the odd curves in his ears, how his cheeks hung, how his lips parted and trembled and how his nose breathed, it was all the same. The only thing that wasn't the same was his eyes—though he guessed if the abomination had _had_ any eyes they would be just as perfect as everything else. They were gone, carved out with a knife or some sort of sharp object that created a star-like pattern around the sockets. Blood crusted on the other Henry's cheek, pouring from the absence of sight and gathering behind his bottom lip.

Henry then noticed that he was muttering something, and against his better judgment he struggled to quell his own cries to hear what the other one was saying. It almost seemed to lose its balance for one moment before it began speaking again.

"_Help...me...PLEASE...,"_

Henry heard himself release multiple cries of fear and discomfort, each one much more intense than the last. The plea for help was hard to decipher, it sounded inhuman and demonic but he was _sure_ of what he heard, partially because the voice, under the layers of distortion and emotion, sounded exactly like his. The abomination beyond his door seemed to stagger, and then it lost its balance, falling forward to the door. Henry shrieked and pushed himself away, falling backwards onto the floor. Floundering and sputtering, he finally felt the incredible headache that had his brain in a vice grip as he struggled to right the Holy Candle in his hands.

A hand clamped down on his ankle and he screamed again, flailing. He could barely see the abomination of himself bend through the door like it didn't exist, a terrible visage of sorrow and need further distorting his face. Kicking at the face, Henry continued to scream, feeling his sanity leave him as things became a hideous blur of colors and motion. There was a crunch as his heel cracked the jaw of the abomination, and for an instant Henry was able to see what he would look like with a broken, bleeding face. The image only urged him to kick harder as he struggled to light the match.

"_Help me PLEASE!"_

"_No!_" Henry screamed, desperate as its fingers dug hard into his calf, "No, no, no!"

Strike, light, wick.

Covering his face with his bare arms, Henry continued to jerk and flail weakly, unwilling to watch the Holy Candle dissolve his ghost. As the small flame disappeared into a diminishing puddle of wax, Henry began to rock himself back and forth, trembling as he hugged his arms close.

"_Hush little baby don't say a word...,"_ he whispered to himself, sobbing as he quietly sang, "_Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird. If that mockingbird don't sing...,"_ He gulped audibly and struggled to continue past his clacking teeth.

"_Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring..._,"

A drop of water fell from the faucet and splatted in the sink. Henry flinched and cried, rocking himself with greater vigor. His voice shook terribly.

"_And if that diamond ring turns brass, Mama's gonna buy you a...a..._,"

Henry's eyes roved about the room until they rested on what they could see of the pile of medical supplies meant for Eileen on the counter. His lips moved as though he was struggling to form words for a while as he became lost in thought gazing at the supplies.

"_...looking glass...,"_

He fell silent before he gently touched his face, feeling the stubble on his cheek, the point of his nose and the curve of his lips, and finally the softness of his eyelids. He was still here. His flesh still felt warm. He was alive and the doppleganger was dead. The doppleganger never _existed_. It was just a bad reflection in the mirror. In the looking glass.

Rattled, but feeling his sanity crawl back to him with each well-meant heartbeat, Henry slowly dragged himself to his feet. Still shivering, he swept the medical supplies from the counter into his arms, crouching over them as though to protect them better as he quietly opened the door and entered the hole.

No first or second thoughts passed his mind, of which he was thankful for. He didn't want to know what his mind would be thinking right now.

–

Eileen hadn't moved an inch from when he left her, though she was no longer staring at the space where he had disappeared. While he was gone she simply listened to the weak songs on the radio, humming along to tunes she didn't know and quietly singing to those she did. More often than not her lips were moving without her direct control or knowledge. All boundaries beyond the room she was in shut down in her mind; there was no place but this. The cult of gorillas in the one room didn't exist anymore, there was nothing beyond the door with a keypad to her right, the hole was invisible as always, and any memories she had of her previous life refused to surface. Sometimes the music was all she focused on, but other times she still felt his sharp stubble on her collar, his arms pulling her side close to his, his tears spilling onto her skin, her fingers buried in his thick hair. He was pleasantly cool to her almost feverish temperature, and his touch was always gentle and hesitant. Regret formed a weight in her throat, but she'd be damned before she acted on that regret, especially now.

She looked down at her body again. How ugly she felt.

Henry arrived much as he had left, sullen and quiet. There were stark differences though, things she noticed the longer she stared at him, even from afar. His face was pale and drained of blood, he teetered when he walked much more so than she was used to, and he seemed to be trembling uncontrollably. In his arms was an array of what appeared to be medical supplies for bandaging. Eileen leaned forward from the wall in concern.

"Henry?"

All the supplies in his arms clattered to the floor next to Eileen's feet. Startled, she pulled her feet closer and looked up at him, scared.

"Henry? Henry, what's going on?" She shifted and used the wall to help her stand as quickly as possible.

"I...," he answered pathetically. Eileen struggled to gain her balance as she slid some supplies away with her foot in order to stand in front of him.

"What happened?"

His eyes roved as he searched for words, but Eileen could tell from the very beginning that he wasn't going to find them. She took his arm somewhat firmly, allowing the shirt that was draped around her shoulders to fall to the floor.

"Henry, look at me."

He did.

His eyes were bloodshot and petrified. Eileen placed a hand on his cheek, ignorant when he flinched and whimpered at her touch as though she was going to hurt him. His breaths were too fast and too irregular, and though he had gathered himself enough to keep a steady gaze on her she could tell that his senses were elevated to an almost ridiculous height.

"Henry? It's gone now." Eileen said, passing her thumb across his cheek, "It's over. It's gone."

She had no idea what she was saying, but as he began to relax and collect himself again so did she. Taking a deep breath, Henry stepped away from her, taking her outstretched hand to help her sit again. She gathered up the shirt from where it fell and handed it back to him. It wouldn't do her much use anymore now that they were most likely going to be moving on soon. Watching as he slid his arms back into the sleeves, she waited patiently for him to finish as he gathered the supplies again.

"It's all I have," he confessed, showing her the gauze and tape.

"What for?" Eileen asked, pulling a lock of her hair away from her face. Henry bit his lip.

"For you—your, ah, eye."

Eileen looked at him incredulously, "Oh—oh, no that's okay I was just, it was all...melodrama, I guess, I'm sorry, I was just—,"

"Please," he interrupted, gaining her attention, "You...it could get hurt further."

She fell silent, then reluctantly nodded, pulling more of her hair back. Relieved at her cooperation, Henry picked a circular piece of gauze. It was nowhere near as big or effective as her old bandage, but it would protect enough save for the outskirts of the wound.

"This could hurt...," he warned her. She merely blinked her affirmation and took the gauze he handed her, placing it over her eye. Cringing, she tried to hold it as lightly as possible as she waited for him to cut the bandage tape.

"Okay...," he muttered. Obligingly, she shifted her hand until only two of her fingers pressed the gauze tightly against her skin. Failing to muffle a cry of pain, Eileen tried to keep her lips from trembling as he applied the first piece of tape, smoothing it out over her cheek and brow with his thumbs.

"Are you okay?" He asked shakily in response to her small cry. She wanted to only nod, but she was forced to reply that she was. Biting his lip again, Henry picked up the second piece of tape and applied it in much the same way, smoothing it out with his thumbs gently but firmly, earning more winces from the poor woman behind his hands. Withdrawing quickly, he asked again if she was alright. Eileen was quiet as she raised her hand to her face, only asking him how much of the bruise the bandage covered. After he replied with the mediocre answer, she nodded and affirmed she was, for that moment, okay.

"How does it feel?"

"The bandage? Fine. I'll get used to it," Eileen answered before her voice turned bitter and scared, "To be here...I can't describe it. I want to get out of here, but I don't remember what the real world is like anymore." She frowned as if she was planning to say something more, but she decided against it.

"Thank you, anyways," Eileen said sincerely. Henry gave a small nod and moved to stand but she stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"I mean it."

He paused, wanting to look at her again but not finding the complete strength to. Nodding again, she kept her hand on his arm to help her stand. Henry rose, helping her to do the same as he did so, being careful not to harm her any further. Eileen sincerely thanked him again, and waited quietly as he entered the code into the number pad on the door. It unlocked smoothly, and he opened it, passing through the door with her.

Eileen gazed around the room, swallowed hard, and said, "Oh, _no_."


	27. Chapter 27

_Sorry for the hiatus again. I've had a busy year since the last update. Travelling the world, college, meeting people I'd never think in a million years I'd meet, y'know. Sorry this isn't much of a chapter. I had a lot of trouble writing it for some reason. We are nearing the end, though, my lovelies!_

_A small note: Joseph's subtitles speak with so many ellipses. I eliminated many of them in order to make it more readable and less of a headache for me._

* * *

**Chapter 27**

Stairs.

_Lots_ of stairs.

An _entire tower_ of stairs.

It stretched far above their heads and far below their feet. The room was impossibly tall, but still wide enough to fit a freight elevator. Going against her greater instincts, Eileen wobbled on her feet as she stepped forward, peering down to see the end of the staircase many, many stories below. Looking up was a similar tale; the only saving grace was that there wasn't any probable way of going upstairs. A massive chunk of the staircase had become nothing more than tangled metal as a result of falling debris. The same debris bridged their way downstairs, however precarious. Henry stepped forward and lightly touched Eileen on the shoulder. She jolted and stumbled backwards, panicked. Murmuring a soft apology, he helped her steady herself. Before she could dismiss the apology or thank him for his help she hissed and cussed lowly, kneading the bridge of her nose tenderly.

The stairs were grated.

"Are you okay?" he asked worriedly. Eileen had to bite her lip to keep herself from snapping at the already struggling man beside her before she responded.

"We'll see. Go...go slow, alright? I don't know how far I can go, one of my heels is breaking."

Henry nodded quietly and offered his hand. She took it, stepping closer to him to let more muscles in her arm relax.

"I might have to stop often," she warned him.

"It's okay." he reassured her softly.

Eileen felt like crying at his calm patience as he slowly began to lead her down the hundreds upon hundreds of stairs below them. The bridge made out of debris hardly shifted as they passed over it, and though the stairs looked well-used and unpredictable they did not betray any instability when they walked. That was one of the only things Eileen could focus on that was good about the horrendous staircase. If it had wobbled while they had walked she wasn't sure she'd be able to keep her paranoia at bay.

Henry descended slowly, but he couldn't pace himself to what she needed. Eileen eventually let go of his hand, opting to grip the railing until her knuckles were white to support her as she followed his slow, steady steps. Every other set of stairs he would pause and glance back, waiting for her to catch up. As much as it was courteous Eileen almost hated him for waiting. When he waited she felt compelled to quicken her pace so he wouldn't be inconvenienced, but as she tried to hurry she felt pangs of embarrassment whenever she came close to tripping or catching a heel on the grate of the stairs. How silly and stupid of her, trying to not look bad in front of him when he had already seen more of her embarrassments than she could fill in a lifetime. Besides, if there were any secrets between them they all might be nothing now; there was no point to keeping them in this world when it seemed that with a flick of a wrist everything would be exposed in an instant. In retrospect Eileen didn't mind, as he was not exempt from that as much as she was. The world was, in a twisted way, fair. Cruel, but fair. Relatively.

The progress they had made without severe interference was for once pleasantly surprising. Only moths bothered them as their presence disturbed the creatures from their resting places attached to the wall. They were more of a nuisance than a threat, and only if they flew particularly close would Henry swipe at them with the shovel. It wasn't until they had seemingly just passed the halfway point when Eileen started feeling new despair well in her chest. The heel on her shoe had gotten worse from the many almost-blunders down the grated staircase, and she felt as though it wasn't long before it would give out and she would twist or maybe even break her ankle in the following tumble.

She wasn't wrong. Just as Henry stopped to wait for her at the landing, she felt her heel plunge into a hole in the grating and before she could catch herself Eileen lost her balance. Grasping the railing beside her, she gave a babbled cry for help as the heel tore away from the rest of her shoe. Deciding it was best to let herself fall rather than cause more pain in trying to stay upright, she folded her leg though her thighs were already twisting awkwardly. Henry climbed the few stairs to her as quickly as he could, catching her at the last moment and helping her slowly reach the rugged stair beneath her.

There was quiet disgust in the sigh she gave, soon covered up by nervous laughter the moment she was stable.

"Well...there you go," she said lowly, "Now what?"

Henry remained quiet in response though the question sounded more rhetorical than anything. Without waiting further, Eileen uneasily bent forward and wrapped her hand around her foot. Twisting her mouth in concentration, she tried to wrestle the shoe free. After several minutes of no success, she frowned as it became clear that the trusting weight she had put on her heel had sufficiently lodged it within the grating. Henry shifted to see if he could help but found himself too nervous to reach out and assist her. Eventually giving up, Eileen gave herself a moment's rest before she cautiously bent her foot to the side.

Hissing in pain, she glanced down to see what was left of the glue that attached the heel to the shoe's sole. It was almost all gone, rendering it completely useless. Despite this Eileen didn't seem distressed as she bent forward again.

Henry watched her curiously as she heaved deep, jagged breaths. Eileen grimaced as she twisted her ankle further, wedging the strongest of her slim fingers between the gap in her heel. Finally working up the courage to offer help when she paused to gasp for air, Henry tried to pry it apart but found his fingers too thick and his hands too hesitant to make significant progress. Retreating as Eileen heaved one last breath, he watched quietly as with small triumph the heel broke free and she relaxed with a sigh. After a while, though, the grimace returned to her face as she crossed her arm over her body and gave an experimental tug on the other heel.

"This one is barely loose, and we—_I'm_ not going anywhere until it's off as well...,"

Henry looked at her, confused and close to aghast at the sudden correction of her words. She could only glance at him before deciding to retract what she had said, continuing to tug weakly on the heel. Looking up at him with a calm atmosphere that was clearly masking what could easily and quickly become foreboding and helpless in light of the future, Eileen asked if there was anything he had that could cut the glue.

Henry sat back on his feet, blank. Eileen blinked, still trying her damndest to mask herself as she played around with words in her head before she spoke.

"Listen Henry, if you don't have anything...then it's fine. You go."

Henry looked at her incredulously, "What?"

"Look. I'm not going anywhere with my shoes like this. It's impossible. Even with the bandages, going barefoot is...I don't know how long I'd be able to stand it. I could barely walk as it is, this is now just...," she bit her lower lip and blinked away tears as the mask started to fade, "I can't go with you."

"I can wait," Henry said quickly, feeling his heart race in fear, "I can wait for you."

"For how long? Henry, if we walk into a room and there are as many of those...ape-things as there were before or _worse,_ how long are we going to survive? Hell, the only way _you_ would live would be for me to act as live bait for them." Eileen bit her tongue before she continued on to say that she would gladly do that as long as he would be able to survive with or without her.

"Here," Henry suggested hopefully, "We could wait here."

"For what? Until my other heel comes loose within the next year of trying to wrench it free?" Eileen squirmed to calm herself as she was getting far too worked up and if she didn't quiet soon she would snap, "Please, Henry. Just go." _Before I start crying._

Blank for a moment more, Henry suddenly started patting at his pockets frantically, feeling his heart sink as he felt nothing more than an extra clip for the handgun. Eileen watched solemnly, ready to start begging him to go when his face lit up with small hope as he swept his hand across his back pocket. Hope, then relief. He then pulled out the small but faithful paper cutter he thought he had forgotten back at the hospital. Eileen's visible eye widened. It _could_ work, though a small doubt in the back of her mind spoke quietly; it was only a paper cutter and it would sooner break than saw through tough glue.

Though superficially she tried to not let her hopes get the best of her lest disappointment suddenly grab her by the throat, Eileen focused almost fanatically on the knife as Henry carefully selected a small but usable portion of the blade to use. The doubt in her mind remained, but she could only think of how hesitant and gentle Henry's demeanor was; he would not break the blade in haste or power. Yes. That's what she had to think. Anything but the prospect of failure even though it still very much was a possibility to be dreaded.

She didn't realize that Henry was momentarily frozen until she was able to break herself from her thoughts.

"Oh," she said with a small laugh, "Here."

Henry was no less awkward after she had acknowledged him, especially when she shifted herself and twisted her foot. She gritted her teeth in pain. The cement cast that enclosed her arm weighed heavily on her bruised ribs, and the muscles in her thighs were sore and screaming from the constant movement and little rest. The awkward twist at her knee alone sent bolts of pain straight to her head, making her vision blur at the edges. She gasped before gritting her teeth again. Henry hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should say something to relieve her of the pain, but quickly decided that the sooner he busied himself with cutting the heel of her shoe the sooner she could relax.

At first he was worried that the blade wouldn't cut, even with as sharp as it remained to be. But when he carefully slid the blade between heel and sole, he soon found that the blade was going to suffice as long as he only concentrated on cutting the glue and the glue only.

He was almost done when Eileen unleashed a piercing cry that she had bottled up, and Henry skittishly recoiled, dropping the knife on the stair as Eileen's body untwisted itself to a much more comfortable position. Eileen panted harshly, wincing and writhing weakly.

"Are—are you okay?" Henry asked meekly. Swallowing hard, Eileen rested her cheek wearily on her arm before she was able to regain herself enough to reply.

"I'm sorry," she apologized quietly as tears choked her voice, "I'm sorry, it just _hurts_."

She glanced down at where he was crouched a couple stairs below her. Henry couldn't break her gaze though he was suddenly aware of all of his physical faults. Everything about him suddenly became uncomfortably self-conscious; the square but soft jaw he possessed; the chapped, flat-colored lips; the oily pores on his cheeks; every wiry, wayward hair of stubble on his face and neck; his cold, pointed nose; the growing, heavy bags beneath his tired eyes; the deadbeat slump of his otherwise broad shoulders; the fat ear lobes peeking out from the thick, matted mess of his dusty, dirt-colored hair; his dark, expressionless eyebrows; even the shape created by the way his neck curved to support his head and how it had in turn forced his Adam's apple to poke out; of _course _she noticed all of this and more. How could she not? It was plain as day.

Eileen blinked, "Are you about done?"

Henry's breath caught in his throat. At first he feared she was bluntly referring to how he had inadvertently just stared at her without regard, seeing nothing but feeling her take in everything. When she gestured innocently with her foot the breath was released, although he was no less anxious than before. Reaching down too quickly to retrieve the paper cutter, he accidentally grabbed the edge of the blade, poking and slicing his scarred palm. With a soft cry of shock he breathed slowly through his teeth, carefully wrapping his hands around the handle of the knife before she could see the blood.

"What is it?" she asked with concern, but he merely shook his head and dutifully cut the last threads of glue. After brushing dust away and gently prying off whatever was still attached, the heel fell off without trouble. Henry gave a small nod of approval and pocketed the knife, keeping his hand out of sight.

He was not as secretive as he thought, however. Eileen grabbed his wrist, bringing it closer to her face to examine. Henry winced, but didn't make a move to break away. She looked at it rather expressionlessly though he could tell she, again, was drinking in every detail that she could, wiping the free blood away to look at the cut.

"It's not that bad," she said nonchalantly after a while, "I've...seen worse."

Henry slowly brought his hand back to his side. They both have seen worse.

Eileen motioned for him to sit next to her. Awkwardly he did, keeping just enough distance between them to allow room for tension to settle in the gaps.

"Thanks," she said a little belatedly, "I was...well, close to forcing you to leave without me."

Henry swallowed quietly, his dry lips sticking together. She watched him out of her peripheral vision. He was uncomfortable. He had saved her life an innumerable amount of times and had risked his own for her safety even more and he was _still_ uncomfortable. It was almost enough for her to resent him. She watched him breathe, his broken chest unevenly rising and falling and she wanted nothing more than to feel his sides pressed up to hers, transferring those broken breaths to her soft skin. Blinking sadly, she gently turned her head away to massage her damaged eye. It wasn't his fault. She should stop acting so selfishly. Inhaling a cold gulp of air, she let it freeze her yearning.

Henry swatted at a moth and it pinwheeled down the open air before it regained its balance two stories down. Eileen flinched as another flew too close to her side. Offering his hand, Henry helped her stand so they could move before more moths found their way to them. She stumbled a little before she got used to the uneven footing that her shoes were not made for, but she was hindered far less than before as she followed Henry down the rest of the stairs with little trouble.

At the bottom was a door, painted with the same red circular symbol that signified their exit. Both of them sighing gratefully, Henry closed his hand around the knob of the door and twisted.

The unexpected bright light made them squint as they cautiously stood in the doorway, Henry keeping Eileen behind him. Blinking rapidly, he raised a hand to block the light as he tried to take in the décor of the room they were entering.

The bright crystal chandelier hanging from the tall ceiling seemed out of place in the nightmarish world as it happily shone on theatrical curtains that clung to the wall. Henry wrinkled his nose, and as his eyes adjusted to the light they widened in horror as he speculated that the curtains were constructed out of skin. It was terrifyingly well done in its own way, and though it was showy it wasn't dangerous, and Henry was well on his way to brushing the initial shock off when there was the creaking and groaning of giant pulleys and wires. When the paintings descended Henry realized it was a trap, but by then it was too late. The door had closed behind them, pushing Eileen forward to do so. The click of the lock sent their hearts racing as they both stared in terror at the lowering paintings.

It was worse that the creatures hardly made any noise as they ascended and descended. They resembled the monsters that resided in the walls; the spindly torsos mimicked human men had their skin been torn off and crudely sewn back on. The rough sinew bulged on their wiry arms and Henry had scarcely any warning before he saw that the creature closest to him had lashed out. Knocked flat against the wall, Henry choked on his saliva, feeling the presence of Eileen's grip pulling him aside before the painting attacked again.

Crouched (or perhaps cowering) in front of the door where the monsters could not reach them, they stared in terror, frantically trying to understand and find a way out all at once. There was a door at the opposite end of the room, separated from them by a great, seemingly endless pit. Only a pitifully narrow walkway bordered the inside of the room, almost never out of the reach of the monsters. Henry, eyes wild with fear, stood up, pulling Eileen with him. She was stiff but followed close behind him as he cautiously approached the first painting to their left. After a couple swings of the shovel the monster appeared stunned, urging the two to move forward.

Henry was tired. The swings of the shovel came slow and heavy, perpetuating them from monster to monster at an arduous pace. Each time the monster became stunned it would retreat up to the ceiling, never allowing Henry to finish the job. Given a few minutes of recovery they would always return, just as alert as before. Though it managed to push them into a sense of hurry, the weakness Henry felt in his muscles threatened to be absolute. The bright white light from the chandelier made his forehead buzz but he fought against the dizziness, leading Eileen across to the door.

"_Locked_," he hissed, feeling his morale dip below his heart when he struggled against the door knob.

"There's gotta be a way!" Eileen panted, "Can you break it?"

Henry gave her a pleading look. She twisted her mouth, thinking frantically while he kept wary eyes on the monsters.

"Maybe there's a key on the floor? Somewhere? Or a switch, or _something_!"

Henry closed his eyes, breathing heavily. Okay. Okay. They weren't dead yet. They could still make this—maybe she was right, even if he highly doubted the possibility.

"I'll go one way, you go the other?" She suggested, making Henry open his eyes with such shock his jaw clenched along with it.

"I'll be okay," Eileen assured him before he could respond, "I swear it—I can duck." When he didn't look like he could afford to believe her, she added one more thing, "It'll be harder trying to protect the both of us."

Closing his eyes again, Henry begrudgingly agreed, telling her to stay safe before turning to the path they already traveled down, shovel raised. Keeping herself hunched and trying to shake off the abruptness of his turn, Eileen tried to take in as much detail of the ground as possible as she very slowly worked her way between the painting monsters, lashing out with the night stick if they tried to attack her. Sooner rather than later she became fully focused on beating back the monsters instead of searching for a key on the ground. If she had looked she would've seen that Henry was reduced to doing the same, with only a lucky glance at the ground every now and then.

Eileen tripped and the clawed fingers of the painting ahead of her ripped her chin open. Snarling as she stumbled back to her balance, she glared at faceless monster and beat its outstretched arm. It and every single one of the other monsters flinched. Shocked, Eileen hit it again, closer to the shoulder this time. Again every single one of the paintings reacted as though she had hit all of them.

"_Henry!_" She called, continuing to attack the monster.

Henry came as fast as he could on the narrow pathway, ducking and avoiding the flailing wiry bodies. Though he didn't know what was going on he was certain Eileen had discovered of a way to at least stun the monsters, hopefully preventing them from attacking again. Just as he reached her Eileen missed an attack, giving the monster enough time to retaliate and strike her to her knees. Before it could attack again Henry had stepped past Eileen, swinging the shovel with all his might. After two swings the monster let out a scream that turned into a growling death rattle, and as its twisted body dangled limp the rusty pulleys pulled it and the rest of the paintings up. With a final echoing _clank_, the paintings remained suspended far above their heads.

Breathing heavily, the two of them looked back at the far door as it unlocked with the loud churn of the tumblers. Swallowing, Henry offered a hand to Eileen, grimacing at her bleeding chin. Choosing to ignore his concern, Eileen nonchalantly brushed herself off and nodded at him, relieved that monsters were gone. Wanting to say something but not finding the words, Henry quietly led her to the door, opening it to reveal another spiral walkway.

They descended into the darkness together. At times they could barely see two feet in front of them from the lack of light. Noises from the right side of the walkway taunted them as they passed; withering wheelchairs, abused swingsets, and twitching forms of false women all seemed to react maliciously to their presence. The inability to actually see any of the crude displays with any clarity only left their imaginations to torture them as they walked past.

Henry's steps were dogged and slow, and before long he was walking at Eileen's pace. Eileen did not mind, placing her hand on his shoulder as they walked side by side, him dragging his feet and her limping to a broken beat.

"Hey," Eileen spoke as they passed a familiar fork in the walkway, "Don't you think you need rest, Henry?"

"Huh?" he muttered, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Isn't there normally one of those holes here?" she said, gesturing down the fork, "You really look awful, shouldn't you rest? I'll be safe here, no one comes here anyways."

_Mother does, sometimes._

"No, it's okay," Henry replied tiredly, "I think we're almost out of here."

"How do you know?" she asked, turning towards him.

"I...I guess I don't," he confessed, stepping down one more stair, "It's just...there's only one other world I've been to, and it was the last one before the hospital."

"Which one was that?" Eileen asked, following him.

He stuttered, then answered, "Our apartment building."

Eileen fell silent as she followed him. She wanted to ask so many questions about the apartment complex in this other world but at the same time she already had a horrid idea of what it was like. On top of that, the idea of seeing the complex again whether normal or demonized began to weigh heavy in her mind. Would she like to see her room again? Would there still be blood all over? How severe were the blood stains? Could it be something she could salvage?

Did she _want_ to salvage it?

_It didn't matter what she wanted to salvage because it was close to mother and that's all she needed, because mother needed her because a mother needs their baby as much as the baby needs their mother. It's okay. Baby will be with mother soon._

She blinked as the thought faded from memory.

There was a single fluorescent street lamp at the bottom of the spiral walkway. Though it was bright it could only light the area where the final door rested. The door was fairly old and painted white with a number plate nailed above the peephole.

The numbers read 302.

Henry glanced back at Eileen before sucking in a breath and turning the handle.

The room was gray and dull. There was no color anywhere in the room save for several red pages of Joseph's diary strewn about as though a whirlwind had placed them where they are now. The only other notable things about Henry's current apartment was that there was a turntable where his television should have been and the overabundance of burning Holy Candles on every discernible surface. Henry and Eileen stepped forward cautiously, careful to not ruin any of the pages. There was a leak in the ceiling that dripped incessantly as they walked past to the small living area.

Eileen turned to look at Henry before something black and dark in her peripheral vision attracted her gaze. As she turned further she let out a gasp, grabbing Henry's attention. There, in the ceiling where the leak was dripping from, was the upturned bust of a man. Everything about him was pitch black and featureless; they could only barely see a nose and the contours of a brow as black liquid continued to drip from his head.

"It's _him_," Eileen whispered hoarsely.

Joseph Schrieber, the previous tenant of room 302.

"_You've done well to make it this far,_" Joseph said, his distorted voice monotonous and echoing in the apartment, "_Let me tell you something about _him,_ Walter Sullivan...,_"

Whether or not it appeared that Joseph could harm them, Henry grabbed Eileen's wrist, pushing her behind him as he stepped out between her and the hanging man.

"_When he was a little boy, he began to believe that my apartment was actually his birth mother. He decided to _free_ her from the stains and corruption of this world. At the orphanage, he learned of the _21 Sacraments, _the only way to purify her._"

Henry glanced at Eileen. Her gaze never left Joseph as she readjusted herself to further hide behind him.

"_He then performed the ceremony of the _Holy Assumption_ and created this...twisted world. Now...he's become nothing more than an inhuman killing machine..._

"_Well, he's dead now...but he's still trying to complete the _21 Sacraments."

Eileen shifted behind him, causing Henry to glance back again. Her lips were quivering with fear.

"_His boyhood desire to return to the bosom of his birth has...divided him. Now his child self has manifested itself in this world...and soon, he is planning to finish his work – the 21 Sacraments._

"_Number 20, 'The Mother Reborn', Eileen Galvin."_

She blinked as a frown creased her face. Henry looked away from Joseph as his brow furrowed and he glanced at her again before he heard Joseph utter a familiar phrase.

"_Number 21, 'The Receiver of Wisdom',"_

A lump formed in his throat.

"_Henry Townshend."_

Joseph continued before heaviness could settle in, "_Even now it may not be too late. Follow...the Crimsom Tome...Stop him. If not...wherever you run, he will catch you."_

Henry absentmindedly let go of Eileen's wrist as Joseph spoke, stepping forward as if to better receive his words.

"_Find him, his true location...It must be nearby. You must kill him. You must kill him. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill._

"_Hurry...she's being taken over...she's Number 20, 'The Mother Reborn'."_

Eileen grasped Henry's arm.

"_The Crimson Tome...Obey the Crimson Tome...Kill him. Must...kill him. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill..."_

Joseph's imposing voice faded as did his body, slowly back up into the ceiling until it was nothing but a black watermark. His last words resonated in the room, filling every corner.

_You must kill him_.

Eileen's grip tightened on Henry's arm and he turned to see her frightened eye.

_She's being taken over_.

Were her bruises darker than he remembered?

_Kill him_.

"He died here," Eileen whispered as though she had known it before she stepped into this room.

_Kill._


	28. Chapter 28

_Back in business, baby. Tons of notes, slow plot movement, but 15 chapters in interactions and development between Henry and Eileen lead to this. This is also the last Eileen-centric drabble for the rest of the novelization._

_Enjoy._

* * *

**Chapter 28**

Eileen woke up on the couch, curled as much as her body allowed her to be. The room was quiet. A soft dankness seemed to blanket everything and above all else it seemed serene like an untouched pool of water in the middle of a forest. Timidly, she stretched her frail body, her eyes focused on the coffee table in front of her. There were several open books strewn on the table, one of them being a diary that Henry had kicked in accidentally from just outside the door. The edges of the pages were crumpled but the words he had read to her were seared in her mind now in her waking hours.

_I had that weird dream today. The one with the man with the long hair and coat. He was crying and looking for his mother again. I saw that man with the coat 10 years ago at this apartment. He was going up the stairs, carrying a heavy tool, an old-looking bowl and a bag that was dripping blood. I never saw him again after that. But a few days later, the neighbours complained that they heard strange noises coming from the supposedly empty Room 302. So I took a look around Room 302 and found signs that someone had been in there, but nothing odd other than that. But that's when it all started. I still hear strange noises coming from the window of Room 302._

_Sunderland._

Though Eileen felt an unexplainable warmth emanating peacefully from the room she still shivered at the superintendent's words. Joseph's words, too, taunted her as she lied there, not quite fully awake but not asleep either. The idea that this had been going on for years – had been planned for _years_ – haunted her so much she was surprised that her sleep was long, quiet, and fulfilling despite the horror that was gnawing at her insides.

Henry had scoured the room before she had begged him to stop and rest with her, leading to them eventually falling asleep where they had secured themselves: her on the couch, Henry in a chair just out of her sight. Before she had fallen asleep she could barely see his stretched legs in her fuzzy peripheral vision, but after she woke up she had to crane her neck and peek over the armrest to see that he had become just as curled up as she was despite how ridiculous he looked. A grown man with unkempt facial hair, broad, thick shoulders and long, almost lanky legs somehow comfortably if messily curled on a single chair...Eileen would have only envisioned it as a hyperbolic illustration if she hadn't seen it for herself.

Part of her felt bad for begging him so hard to rest here a while, but then again the moment he had sat down she had heard him sigh so deeply she guessed that it took him mere seconds to fall asleep. She wasn't all together surprised because he had looked on the verge of collapse when they had entered the apartment. Joseph's words must have invigorated him, maybe even scared him. They had scared her.

No, they had _terrified_ her.

She had known Joseph in life—he had a strong moral compass but never imposed it on anyone (she guessed this was because of his journalist mindset). To think that what he was saying wasn't with the best intentions as well as heavily researched would be blasphemy. That wasn't like Joseph, and since he seemed to be the only other one in his right mind, if you could call it that in this godforsaken place, she was hard-pressed to reject what he had said.

On top of what Joseph said there were the books and notes Henry had poured over and tucked away. She had shown curiosity in what he was reading at first but it quickly dissolved to heightened queasiness and soon she was begging him to stop even though the letters he was reading were short.

She had heard every word despite her plea though; either that or she had _known_ every word before he had read them aloud or she had seen them while peering over his hunched shoulder. The first one he hadn't read aloud, but she could see that it was a children's book, with large text next to gruesome illustrations.

_There once was a baby and a mother who were connected by a magical cord. But one day the cord was cut, and the mother went to sleep. The baby was left all alone._

_But the baby made lots of friends at Wish House, and everyone was very nice to him. The baby was happy._

_His friends told him how to wake up his mother. So the baby went right away to go and wake her up. But the mother wouldn't wake up. No matter how he tried, she wouldn't wake up._

_Because the one that he was trying to wake up was actually the Devil. The baby had been deceived. Poor baby._

_The baby cried and cried and cried. When he thought of the mother, he remembered the feeling of being connected to her through the magical cord._

_Just then,a ray of light came down from the sky. The light was very warm and made the baby feel good. When the baby looked into his hand, he saw that the magical cord was lying there._

_With the cord clutched in his hand, the baby went happily to sleep._

When Henry had seen that she was reading it as well he picked up the next book, bound in red leather and stained on many of the old pages, and read it aloud for her benefit, much as they both came to secretly regret.

"_Crimson Tome"_

_She who is called the "Holy Mother" be not holy one whit. The "Descent of the Holy Mother" is naught but the Descent of the Devil. Those that be called the "21 Sacraments" be not sacramental one whit. The "21 Sacraments" be naught but the 21 Heresies._

_To give birth to a realm of wickedness within the blessed realm of our Lord be blasphemy and the work of the Devil._

_If thou would stop the Descent of the Devil, you must bury part of the Conjurer's mother's flesh within the Conjurer's true body. Thou must also pierce the Conjurer's flesh with the 8 spears of "Void", "Darkness", "Gloom", "Despair", "Temptation", "Source", "Watchfulness", and "Chaos". Do so and the Conjurer's unholy flesh will become that which it once was, by the grace of our Lord._

The tome's words had been much more cryptic than Joseph's, but still just as disturbing. A stone had begun to settle in her stomach at this point. By the time Henry had gone into the bedroom and had started reading the scattered sheets of red paper the stone had become a boulder.

The first note he read made his face crease with discomfort, as though he had just experienced what she had been by reading something that was unknowingly familiar. He read it slowly, with his voice fading on certain words as his mind raced to remember why the text made him feel like he was forgetting something.

_What's with this room?_

_It's covered in blood and rust..._

_This is my room...but what the hell has happened to it...?_

_This room...is this really my room...?_

_It's in terrible shape. The air is so heavy...my head hurts..._

_Creepy...it looks like a face._

_What the hell am I writing?_

_August 2 – Joseph_

His eyes had brightened with a worried fervor as he pocketed the note and moved on to the next.

_I can't break down the wall._

_August 3 – Joseph_

Again. Eileen had watched him carefully from the doorway, stepping closer as he started searching the desk.

_When the bell rings, Eileen = mother's body, blood._

_August 4 – Joseph_

"Stop," she had said quietly, her knees feeling terribly weak, "Henry, stop. I don't need to hear more."

Either he didn't hear her or he didn't listen because he had moved straight to the next note.

_The Crimson Tome_

"_Bury part of the Conjurer's mother's flesh within the true body of the Conjurer."_

_Part of the flesh = super's room?_

_August 5 – Joseph_

"_Stop!_" she cried, surprised at the volume of her voice. Henry jumped and turned around, eyes still burning with that worried fervor she had seen in them before. She breathed heavily, holding back tears.

"Do you have any idea what this is doing to me?" she whispered pathetically.

Henry blubbered, then had apologized, slowly at first but gaining speed and becoming frantic as the words left his mouth. He rose to his feet and approached her, arms shaking and hovering over her shoulders.

"I'm sorry," he stuttered, "Let's go, we can get out of here now,"

"No," she replied, rubbing her eye, "No, I didn't mean it like that."

That was when she had begged him to stay here and rest. She figured (or hoped) that that had been hours ago that they had found their places and fallen asleep. The bed was covered in dried wax and spent wicks. Some of the candles around the bed were still lit and dripping hot wax onto the edges, effectively making it uncomfortable and forcing them to where they were now.

Being here in Joseph's room 302 brought her a peace of mind, but the peace of mind brought her terrifying clarity. The clarity had come to her in such a way that she hadn't realized she was missing it since she was attacked. It was both refreshing and disappointing at the same time; refreshing because she could finally breathe and think, disappointing because she was losing faith in her own strength and wondered (worried) if she was any different or if anything had happened that did not remain in her memory. If it had, Henry hadn't spoken a word of it. She _did_ remember flashes of ridiculous uncontrollable anger, visions of unspeakable violence and hatred as though they were part of her own childhood, and grinding auditory hallucinations that haunted her most when Henry wasn't near. She hadn't told Henry any of this. Hell, she figured that he was going through similar things—this world was twisted enough that it was possible. On top of that the ghosts seemed to affect him when they didn't affect her. Again, she had figured it was because he had spent more time in this world than she did, initially. Maybe it was something to be accepted but not talk about.

She had _never _figured that it could be because it was _only_ happening to her. She had _never_ figured that the ghosts only affected Henry _because she was closer to being one than he was._

Shuddering and whimpering as Joseph's heavy words played over and over again in her head (_number twenty the mother reborn Eileen Galvin hurry she's being taken over she's number twenty the mother reborn_) she struggled to recount her past memories and childhood as precisely as possible from her earliest memory of spilling milk on the carpet to the turn of the knob of her door that let the man in the coat enter her apartment. Sorting her thoughts and plucking out the anomalies, Eileen frantically tried to place where she had always been in her life and tried to reaffirm her identity by doing so—the milk on the carpet, _playing with Bob and getting hit for it, _the day her parents brought a puppy home, _the dog that bit her arm so bad she screamed and it bled and she hit it back with a rock and threw more rocks and more rocks and suddenly all she wanted to do was shoot them all,_ acne in middle school, _reading the Sacraments very well,_ undeserved popularity in high school, _yes she still had her doll she had gotten it from a little girl on the subway that had taken pity on her she'd be perfect for number twenty, _relationships, _rejection from that bitch that had tempted her she was a whore anyways better off as the sixteenth sacrament, _moving to South Ashfield Heights, _mother isn't waking up,_ friends in college, _she had all the ten hearts in order, _graduation, _Assumption,_ plans for the Peace Corps, _round two they called it round three they'll call this one, _the attack, _the reunion,_ Henry Townshend, _the Receiver of Wisdom_.

Eileen dug her chipped and bleeding nails into her flesh despite the pain it caused. Half of those memories weren't hers, she _knew_ they weren't hers but they seemed so _real_ and _relevant_ to her that she was having trouble forcing herself to disbelieve them.

There was _one_ though that she had no idea how to identify it. There were three people in the memory: a grimy homeless man, a mother, and her chipper six-year-old daughter in a pink winter coat. It had happened in the subway, the girl had felt sorry for the man and had given him her doll to cherish and help keep him warm in the winter. The mother had shooed her away before anything else could happen.

Eileen's heartbeat raced. She recognized the pink coat in the memory, it had belonged to her when she was just starting elementary school. The mother too, she recognized the face as her own mother. And the doll, that was _her _doll—her favorite doll until she was six years old because she had given it to a man in the subway. The man in the subway, though her memory was hazy, had stringy blond hair and cold light eyes. Her mind might have been playing tricks on her at this point, but her memory of how the man in the subway looked matched perfectly with the terrorizing face of the man in the coat, Walter Sullivan.

Eileen felt dizzy.

The doll. That was why she was here.

The doll was the reasoning behind her being number twenty, the Mother Reborn.

Her vision faded and she fell unconscious.

She didn't know how much time had passed when she came to again, but Henry was still quietly sleeping just out of her vision with the same broken breaths she had come to find comfort in. Shifting on the couch, Eileen tried to prop herself against the cushions so she could see him still curled in the chair.

_How had _he_ come to this?_ she wondered. _Or does the "Receiver of Wisdom" hold less symbolism than...than a mother does?_ Was it dumb coincidence, bad karma? Or was she like her in that there was some repressed memory that held the key as to why they were trapped in this hell?

She wished she knew. She had spent too long feeling utterly alone in this world and while it was granted that part of that was her fault for being so guarded around Henry (though he wouldn't exactly blame her for that she knew) she honestly yearned for his companionship. Though Eileen knew he wasn't very good at small talk she desperately wanted him to fill her head with idle, mundane chatter. On top of that she wanted to feel physical comfort—hands on her shoulders, head on his lap, whatever it was as long as it gave her the false sensation of security. She was going utterly insane laying here failing to block her memories, thoughts, and the words of others.

Eileen wanted him to wake up as badly as Walter wanted his mother to.

There was only the gentle quiet to answer her plea.

Henry grunted and shifted some several minutes later, long after Eileen's thoughts drifted to nothingness. She sat up on the couch and watched as his eyes blinked slowly. Wincing as he started to come to terms in the awkward position he had slept in, he gingerly stretched his limbs and yawned, eyes fluttering shut in a futile attempt to catch even a few more seconds of sleep. When the kinks in his neck, joints, and extremities made it clear to him that there would be no more rest he wearily opened his eyes and sighed quietly, staring into the distance.

"Good morning," Eileen said softly. Henry noticed her for the first time since he awoke and made a rumbling hum in reply, sitting up and grimacing from the aches and pains both new and old.

"How did you sleep?" she asked.

"Good," he mumbled as he rubbed the side of his face with his scabbing fingers. The stubble on his face pricked at the scabs but he no longer seemed to care if he was hurt further or not.

"Good." she replied.

"Relatively." he added.

"Yeah."

"You?"

Eileen rested her head to the side of the couch, "I woke up once, briefly. But other than that...fine. No nightmares."

Henry looked relieved before he bent forward to rest his head in his hands, gently massaging his brow and cheeks. Eileen closed her eyes and breathed slowly. Despite the dark whirlpool her thoughts had become, it wasn't oppressive here in this room. She appreciated that perhaps more than she realized.

Henry stood up and groaned as things that shouldn't be popping popped as he stretched, occasionally wincing and whimpering. At one point he cried out in pain and Eileen's eye flew open, seeing him doubled over in pain, his burnt left arm gingerly hovering over his ribs.

"What is it?" Eileen asked worriedly, lifting her head away from the couch.

"_Everything_," Henry growled, struggling to bite back frustrated and pained tears. Eileen laid her head back, watching him as he carefully unwound himself until he could stand comfortably.

"Do you need help with anything?" Eileen offered, "I can't do much but I might be able to massage something if you wanted,"

"No," Henry rejected quietly, nursing his burnt arm before carefully moving to his legs and feet, "It's alright."

"It's okay," Eileen persisted, "I don't mind doing you a favor."

Henry flinched and looked at her as though he was going to be sick from how incredulous he was.

"Oh...," Eileen said quietly, "Did I...say the wrong thing?"

Another wince escaped his lips as he contemplated what to say. Slowly he allowed himself to limp to the unoccupied seat of the couch before sitting himself down on the cushions near Eileen's feet. Sighing, he laid his head back, exposing his stubbly neck and adam's apple. Eileen's gaze dropped to her feet and knees, bent in such a way that they were still securely on the couch.

"Cynthia had said something similar," Henry swallowed after a while.

"The ghost in the subway?"

He made a noise in affirmation, "She...well...offered me a favor—a 'special favor'—if I managed to find the exit."

Eileen raised her eyebrows, "Oh? Did you find the exit?"

"No. She said she did, but...she was attacked before I could reach her."

Eileen reached over and placed a gentle hand over his as he drew a breath to continue.

"I don't know," he swallowed hard, "I think I could've reached her, if I had just been faster up the escalator, hadn't tripped and fallen, if—,"

"If you had paid more attention, or were faster, smarter, more agile, if you had just done things differently, maybe this would all been different." Eileen filled in the words for him. He looked over at her with tears stinging his eyes. She breathed shakily. She did not need to be told that this description fit with all the victims he saw die—including her.

"Lie down, Henry," she said, standing up.

"Eileen—,"

"I promise I'll try not to hurt you more," she smirked. Begrudgingly he did as she asked, his legs hanging over the arm rest on one side as his chin hooked over the other. Gently Eileen slid herself into the soft groove of his stomach, flexing her fingers.

"Do you think anything is broken?" Eileen asked before smirking again, "Other than your ass?"

Henry tensed, "U-um, I think a rib or two, lower right side."

"Down here?" Eileen asked, gently touching the right side of his waist and avoiding where the ribs started. When he confirmed Eileen lifted her hand and placed it in the space between his neck and shoulder. The tips of her fingers were on fire from her broken and split nails and it was awkward with only one hand, but she tried to work past it the best she could, carefully and slowly massaging his shoulders and upper back. More than once she had to remind him to relax no matter how hard it would be forcing himself to do so. When he had begun to whimper and tense up in anticipation as she had gotten halfway down his back she stopped.

"Sorry if I got too far," she muttered, flexing her hand again. He mumbled something inaudible, she guessed it was a dismissal of her apology, before slowly sitting up again.

"Better?" she asked.

"A little," he answered honestly, "Thank you."

"You can thank me when you return the favor after we get out of here," her smile was forced but her eye shone at the thought. Henry forced a small smile back. Neither of them were sure if the other thought the idea of escape was honestly believable.

He stood up and offered his hand. Reluctantly she took it. Though she had mentioned the idea of escape she didn't want to leave this area, so full of the calming quiet that she know will be destroyed the moment they step out of here. Eileen was terrified of what could happen, terrified of the memories that weren't hers and what they would do to her if they took over. Henry led her down the small hallway where a green-bladed pickaxe was stuck in the wall between the doors. Easing the pickaxe free, Henry carried it into the bathroom. There in the bathroom she saw the hole for the first time, ringed in red runes and completely dominant over everything else in the bathroom. The sink was bent and shoved aside, the mirror was broken, and bits of plaster and metal still dusted the floor.

She gripped his hand as it began to slip away, preventing him from leaving and causing him to turn around.

"I can see the hole." she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Henry set the pickaxe and the shovel down.

"Do you...want to go through it together?"

Eileen started, "N-No, no I don't...I don't know. Where would it go?"

Henry stared at it thoughtfully, "I'm not sure...,"

"Could it send us to two different places?"

Henry looked back at her. Anything was possible in this world—that is to say, a rule shouldn't be expected to be kept the same all the time. Eileen's face noticeably twisted in pain before she could hide it.

"You go," she squeaked, "I'll follow."

She avoided his gaze. Worried, Henry reached forward in an attempt to study her face but she stepped back, her shoulders rising like insecure peaks. Desperately trying to search for something to say, Henry felt dismay sink into his stomach when he once again came up with nothing that would be remotely comforting or open to her.

That was a lie for once. There were several things he wanted to say, some of them so incredibly mundane they wouldn't have made a difference and others so deeply personal he was frightened that he would disturb her and lose her trust. After an awkward minute of standing in silence, Henry audibly gulped down his wilted pride and stepped away to enter the hole.

Eileen's hand lashed out, her fingers latching onto his arm. He turned around again.

She was crying.

"_Please_ look for me when you get there, don't forget me!"

He looked at her incredulously.

"Please, if you find me again, _please_ don't leave me alone, I'll go where you go, I don't care about ladders anymore, I just don't want to be alone!"

"I will," Henry answered, reaching up to her hand and running his thumb over her knuckles, "I will, it's okay."

"_Nothing's_ okay," she sobbed quietly. Henry shifted and her hand fell from him, hiding her ugly blotched face, "Henry, _nothing's_ okay, but—,"

She looked at him. He blinked, startled from the intensity of her gaze that was rife with too many emotions he couldn't name. Fear, there was definitely fear in her eye, but there were too many other emotions alive and burning that fear might as well just been the understudy for their grand performance. Henry waited expectantly for her to finish her sentence.

Eileen cupped the side of his face, feeling his stubble on her palms as she stood on the ball of her feet to kiss his lips. Henry stumbled on his footing from the shock. Before he could pull himself together enough to respond she had retreated, her hand dropping to his lapel and her gaze dropping to his collarbone.

"Please don't forget me," she whispered, "Joseph is right about everything. I...I don't know who you'll find if you find me again."

"I won't," Henry answered just as softly as her, "I can't."

Her breaths became shakily uneven and her grip on his shirt tightened. Henry lifted a hand and gently closed it around the shoulder of her broken arm.

"Eileen...,"

She inhaled and held her breath, bursting at the seams with tears before she released it, "_Go_. Go, Henry. Now. Please." Eileen stepped away from him, her hair hiding her face. Henry instantly became trapped between doing as she wished and leaving or staying just a moment longer to see her face again. Damning his awkward instincts, Henry reached forward, placing his hands on either side of her head. She flinched and stared at him, trembling. For a moment she was terrified that he'd kiss her and never stop, for a moment she was afraid she had made another innocent mistake like she had all those years ago as a girl in the subway and that this was ultimately going to lead to her harm and undoing.

But no. He simply gazed at her despite the ugly condition of her face, drinking in every detail as specifically as he could before she wrenched her face away. Undeterred by the abruptness of her actions, Henry politely stepped away from her.

"I'll find you." he promised her before he climbed into the hole.

Eileen covered her face and sobbed.

–

The soft sensation of her scabbing, broken lips remained on his chapped ones as he eased himself out of his bed. He hadn't seen it coming. One minute she was sobbing and then all of the sudden she had pulled him close. The corners of her lips were a mix of copper and salt—salt from the tears, copper from the dried blood when Walter had dug a knife into them. She was warm, almost feverishly hot. It worried him.

_Everything_ worried him, _especially_ now that he was separated from her after what Joseph had told them and what she had done. The skeptical part of his mind chastised him for getting his hopes up. What if she had just kissed him to ensure he'd find her again? It didn't seem probable that she would do that—Henry hoped that she knew him too well to know that he'd just leave her to rot if it were in his power to save her, and he knew _her_ too well to honestly suspect her of something like that. She would've resorted to it long ago if she wanted to. He would've been putty in her hands. Hell, who's to say he wasn't from the start with or without a kiss?

Henry rested his forehead against the cool door frame in his bedroom. Somehow his heart was beating steadily even though his mind was so jumbled he didn't know where to find it or how to stop it.

There was nothing he could do for her. He had to get out of this room as quickly as possible so he could find her again and hopefully take her somewhere safe if not out of this hell entirely. That was the greatest gift he could muster.

He opened his bedroom door.

A muffled, forlorn yowl greeted him. Henry paused, listening intently. Another one, softer this time, followed. It sounded like a cat. Wary, he crept out to the trunk, listening as the lonely cat continued to cry. Picking up a Holy Candle, he located the sound to his fridge. A terrible smell wafted from it, similar to the nightmare he had had what seemed like eons ago. Keeping his distance, he reached out at arms length and opened the fridge.

His face twisted in disgusted pity. On a platter there was a mauled lump of flesh with a dingy tail attached to it. Patches of orange fur still clung to whatever skin it had left, and the mass was resting in a puddle of its own blood. The tail twitched and moved as well as what Henry guessed was supposed to be the neck. The lump moved as though it looked at him with a bloody cavity for a face and meowed hopefully.

A flash of red clouded the sides of his vision as a dull pain throbbed at the front of his head. Henry sighed, lighting the Candle and setting it between the door and the fridge itself. The cat meowed again, as if recognizing what he was doing, and the lump of flesh began to shrink as the Candle burned. The tail swished and curled around the body and it gave one last farewell before disappearing all together. Quietly shutting the fridge, Henry rubbed his nose to get rid of the rest of the smell.

A red note was tucked underneath his door. Bending down, Henry tried to read it but much of it was faded or too stained to make out.

_No. 1: Ten heart..._

_No. 2: Ten..._

_No. 3: Ten hearts..._

_No. 4: Ten hearts – Steve Garl..._

_No. 5: Ten..._

_No. 6: Ten heart..._

_No. 7: Ten hearts – Billy Locane_

_No. 8: Ten hearts – Miriam Locane_

_No. 9: Ten hearts..._

_No. 10: Ten..._

_No. 11: Assumption – Walter Sullivan_

_No. 12: Void..._

_No. 13: Darkness..._

_No. 14: Gloom..._

_No. 15: Despair – Joseph Schreiber_

_No. 16: Temptation – Cynthia Velasquez_

_No. 17: Source – Jasper Gein_

_No. 18: Watchfulness – Andrew DeSalvo_

_No. 19: Chaos – Richard Braintree_

_No. 20: Mother – Eileen Galvin_

_No. 21: Wisdom – Henry Townshend_

_August 7_

Henry wondered why he didn't get this chilling list earlier. Perhaps he would've been able to do something about it—then again, he probably wouldn't have known what the note was and it would've gone to waste. Still it deeply unsettled him to see his name in Joseph's handwriting placed in the last of the 21 Sacraments. He had never met Joseph—never even knew that Joseph was connecting him to the murders. Then again Joseph probably hadn't known this until he himself was in Henry's shoes—far too deep to escape now.

Folding the piece of paper carefully, Henry placed it on the counter-top as a grim reminder. He and Eileen were the last. Hell, Henry was the last. If he couldn't finish this, then nobody could.

Feeling oddly confident, Henry took the pickaxe that he had retrieved from Joseph's room 302 and approached the wall between his bedroom and bathroom.

Joseph couldn't break down the wall. Henry wondered why. The pickaxe had been stuck in a spray of unsuccessful cracks, and Henry was worried that it would do the same to him. In his mind he knew it was just a wall between him and room 301, but he wouldn't get his hopes up. Using whatever strength he could find, he swung the pickaxe in an overhead motion, hoping it wouldn't get stuck in the wall.

The sharp end of the pickaxe broke through the drywall like it was paper. Henry coughed and sputtered from the spray of dust, twisting the pickaxe so the broad-bladed side pointed at the floor. Grasping the handle with both hands, Henry pulled. The pickaxe did not give him as much resistance as he expected and as a result he tumbled back onto his butt, sending bolts of pain to his head. He cried out as a chunk of drywall collapsed onto his feet, startling him. Coughing from the dust, Henry eased himself back up.

There was an entire different room attached to his apartment. Henry stared at it, stupefied. Frank had never mentioned it to him, and none of the other tenants knew of its existence. Carefully he stepped inside, ducking to be able to fit inside the hole. He didn't want to know what Frank would say or what sort of fines awaited him for this damage if he ever got back to a normal life.

The moment he crossed the threshold a pungent, sickening smell hit him like a train. Covering his face and finding support against some portable shelves near the hole, Henry staggered forward, struggling to breathe as lightly as possible. Resting his burned arm against the corner of the shelving, he stopped to try and survey the small room despite the hot tears stinging his eyes.

An empty chemical bottle from the shelf dropped to the floor in front of him. The cap skittered off and rolled down the groove of the floorboards, swinging to a stop in front of a puddle of decayed mush. Henry's eyes traveled from the puddle, staring in horror at what hung above it. It was the body of a long dead man, tangled in wire and strung to a crucifix fastened from medical gurneys. Feathers and bodies of dead crows were nailed to the crucifix alongside the body. The body itself was dressed in a long dark coat splattered with blood, and its paling brittle hair just barely covered his glassy-eyed, assuming expression. There were numbers carved on his bare feet: 11121, 11/21. Walter's true body. The arrangement of his hands was stiff—one by his side and one offering a small token to the meager altar in front of him. The altar displayed two blood-stained goblets and a book—no doubt depicting the Ritual of the Holy Assumption. Behind the crucifix an open refrigerator washed the body in an eerie, unfeeling glow. Henry crept forward, counting ten bags of blood within the fridge.

Unwillingly he inhaled, dragging in the disgusting smell deep into his throat. Coughing and retching, Henry grasped his stomach as he stumbled backwards, feeling tears and mucus drip down his face. Covering himself with his arms and trying to breathe through his shirt, he struggled to keep his footing and inched himself closer to the body.

This was behind the wall. _This_ was just on the other side every single day he went to sleep in his bed. The body was watching his every movement in his apartment. This was why his room sometimes smelled a little sweet and funny during the hottest days of summer. There was the dead body of a psychopathic serial murderer just on the other side of his home.

He crept further.

What should he do? He had found his true location like Joseph had instructed, but now what? This body was most definitely dead, and Henry didn't think that attacking it any further would change anything about his current situation. Though it was disgusting—if applicable—information, Henry had no idea what to do now. If anything he should just go back through the hole and ask Eileen for her point of view.

He was about to turn around when he saw an odd shape sticking out of one of Walter's coat pockets. Despite the fact that he was about to throw up again, Henry leaned forward, squinting past the tears to try and see what it really was.

It looked like a key.

Holding his breath and trying to be quick, Henry put a shaking hand forward. Grasping the tip of the key, he pulled it up and out of the pocket. It was attached to a ring with three other keys. Biting his lip, he turned away and fled the room. Even though his apartment and that room were now connected the smell didn't seem to get there yet. Gasping for air (no matter how stuffy the apartment was to begin with) Henry looked at the keyring in the palm of his hand.

The four keys were small and each one seemed of a different make than the other. On the side of the ring the word _LIBERATION _was carved with an unsteady hand. It seemed odd to him, until he glanced back at his door and the four padlocks holding the sturdy chains in place.

Henry wasted no time. At once he was at the padlocks, trying the keys until each one sprang free. The chains loosened, and Henry raked his fingers at them, pulling them free from the door. He was breathless as thoughts of freedom and normality ran through his mind. This was the end. All he had to do was find Eileen, bring her through a hole that worked until she was safe, _then_ track down Walter and kill him. No telling the authorities. He'd be locked in a loony bin, and he did _not_ come this far to wrench his freedom back to only be thrown in a nice white little padded room for the rest of his _life_ or until they deemed him "sane".

Henry's eager hand closed around the knob and, without taking any chances, he put his shoulder up against the door and pushed with all his might. The door swung open and he took his first step back into the hallway of South Ashfield Heights.

But he did not take a second.

He stood there, frozen by where his eyes met the floor. The tile outside of his room degraded after only a few measly feet. Slowly, as terror lumped in his throat, his eyes traveled upwards until he saw the festering red walls of the Other World apartment complex writhing and squiggling down the entire hallway.

"No way...," he breathed, feeling all of his confidence and bravery slide away from him like an old carapace, "Not here too...,"

He wanted to scream and curse, he wanted break down the walls and tear them apart as if it was only shitty wallpaper and the _real_ world was just behind it. Anger and grief swelled in his chest, culminating in tears at the corners of his eyes.

He couldn't escape.


	29. Chapter 29

_oh my god take this chapter just take it right now_

_The next chapter is a little bit up in the air. Either it will be one big long chapter, or two shorter chapters. We'll see when the time comes._

* * *

**Chapter 29**

All this work to see the chains slip away from his door and he finds out he's still trapped. Four people dead, one horrifically injured in his care, and he was _still _trapped.

Icy fingers grabbed his chest. _Eileen! He had to find her!_

Just as the frantic thought entered his head he heard a familiar pattern of steps down to the end of the hallway. From the darkness that shrouded the hall Eileen limped forward, the sound of her feet music to his ears. Her words flooded his mind as he called her name, hurrying up to her. If there were ladders he would help her with them, if they were separated he'd fight tooth and nail to ensure that they'd reunite. Yes, he was prepared for this; he _should've_ been prepared for this from the start. He was going to protect her like a guardian should've.

He just wasn't prepared when it wasn't Eileen staring back at him.

Everything was the same on the outside. The bruises were no different than from when they separated last. Her dress was just as rumpled and blood-stained, her legs limped in the same shuffled way, her skin still that broken porcelain and her hair a mess matted with blood and saliva. But her eye, something was horrendously different about it in the way she looked at him. There was hardly any familiarity shining in her eye as he approached her, no sign of relief or happiness as he called her name again, softer this time.

There wasn't even a speck of fear or any other emotion in her eye.

Henry felt a knot tighten in his throat and sink to his stomach.

"H-How did you get here?" he asked hoarsely. Eileen blinked.

"Oh. I don't remember. Is that okay?" she replied, her voice betraying a worrying sort of child-like innocence.

"Y-yeah. Yeah it's okay." Henry answered, aghast. His meek voice drooped to a dejected whisper, and his eyes fell from her. Biting his lower lip he sniffed loudly, tasting blood as he did so, "I think we should get going."

Eileen simply stared at him expectantly until he moved around her, head down. The pathway down to the staircase was blocked by rusted iron bars, making their only possible escape through room 301. She followed him dutifully, but Henry had the sickening thought that her steps sounded much more robotic than before. Maybe it was just his imagination warping the situation farther than it needed to be. He certainly hoped so as he turned the knob to room 301.

A pasty white hand pointed at his chest while the twin heads the hand belonged to whispered his accursed title. Henry brought the shovel up horizontally in front of his face as the monster charged. The monster ran straight into the shovel, getting caught at the neck as Henry thrust forward with a grunt. Caught off-balance, the monster toppled backwards, exposing itself for Henry to jam to the blade of the shovel in its neck, ending its life immediately.

"Good-bye," Eileen said from behind him. Henry swiveled on his blistered ankles. Eileen was staring at the dead monster, nonchalantly as though it was the most natural thing in her world.

"Eileen, something's not right," Henry choked. She looked up at him, patiently waiting for him to continue.

There was a staircase to his left and her right. Beneath them Henry heard a long-strided lope begin to ascend to their floor. Gingerly, Henry took Eileen's arm and forced her to move out of the way as he had a sick feeling that she wouldn't if he didn't make her. Another twin-faced demon appeared from below. Before it could reach the floor Henry swatted at the top of its heads with the flat of the shovel, attacking it until he heard a bone-crunching sound and the monster collapsed, tumbling back down the stairs. Henry peered over the edge of the railing, trying to see if it was in fact dead when a pair of grimy white hands gripped the edge of the railing. A fleshy, muscular monster roared as it pulled itself up and over the railing, vaulting itself at Henry.

Henry screamed and tumbled backwards, watching in horror as the monster crashed on the floor. It looked just like the other twin-headed monsters, if only the robes, feathers, and baby-faced masks were removed to reveal scarred and dirty skin stretched thin over wiry muscles. Two faceless lumps of flesh acting as the heads squirmed and stretched out at him from where it toppled on the floor. The twisted body seemed to make child's play at anatomy; the vertebrae of its spine jutted out in the skin in a winding manner down to its boneless hips. Between its only limbs and swaying freely was an odd scrotum-like sac, shaped like a head. As the beast slowly brought its hands beneath it Henry could see that it _was_ a head—it had a face that yawned and gnashed its beaten lips at him, guttural moans and sighs emitting from within.

It raised a hand enclosed into a fist and struck out at him. He screamed again, scrambling to right himself. Rolling out of the way just as the fist crunched on the floor, Henry scraped to his feet and grabbed Eileen's wrist. Giving the monster's outstretched hand a hit with the shovel, Henry fled down the short hallway as it reeled in surprise.

He hid themselves into the second alcove he found—nothing more than an oversized rusty birdcage that encircled them. There was barely enough room for the both of them if they sat. Henry was breathing hard, Eileen silent beside him. Biting his lip, Henry crouched and held the shovel tightly, willing as much power he could behind the faithful weapon.

"_RECEIVER_" the monster screeched his title, racing down the narrow hallway. Henry inhaled sharply, waiting until the abomination was right in front of him before thrusting the shovel forward with all his might. The spade severed the muscles and ligaments in the creature's arm, causing it to fall over screaming in pain. Henry wasted no time and, taking a guess, drove the shovel through the head between the monster's limbs. The head watched him in hatred as it died, causing Henry to grimace.

"Good-bye," Eileen said again, almost wistfully. Henry stared at her, panting heavily as the corners of his lips pulled downward further.

"Come on," he whispered, grasping her wrist, "Let's go."

"I found this for you," she held out her hand. A silver Saint Medallion dangled from her fingers, "Will you put it on?"

Henry inhaled and gently took the Medallion, "Later. We have to go."

"Okay." she accepted without argument, her voice still resembling that of a child.

Henry's grip tightened over her small hand. He had to get her out of here as fast as possible. Pulling her along behind him he led her down the staircase into room 201. The rooms were more hellish and rundown than before, with missing walls, exposed plumbing, rusting metals and blood stains splattered everywhere. A woman's voice filled the otherwise empty halls with shamed sobs and heavy-hearted breathing. Henry kept his head down as though he thought he was being judged by the voice.

The ambient noise became gritty and dark as he opened the door to lead Eileen into the hallway. Multiple layered voices argued over each other and the guttural groans of monsters filled Henry's head, metal scraping on metal as he ran down and entered room 202—the room of the painter. The giant unfinished canvas from before had been moved, revealing a hole to the adjoining room. Hastily bound to the back of the canvas was another Sword of Obedience, waiting for him to wrench it free.

The rope that had been used to wrap the Sword to the canvas was long and sturdy if rough against his skin. Keeping the Sword tangled in the rope, Henry paused to fashion a flimsy sling, wrapping it over his head and shoulder so it ran across his chest and kept the Sword on his back. Eileen said nothing and simply stared into the unimaginable distance before he grabbed her hand again and continued onwards.

Henry ducked through the hole to room 203, not stopping to explore as he led Eileen out to the stairwell. He was so focused on his current goal that he almost ran straight into a bloated nurse.

Screaming, he fell to the ground, forcing Eileen to do the same. Distantly noticing that she didn't even cry out in pain or shock, he cowered at the nurse's feet, noticing the legs of many other nurses. Passing the shovel to his left hand, Henry pulled the handgun from his waist. He had no idea how many bullets he had left. Regardless he pointed the gun upwards and let off a shot. The closest nurse flinched, giving him enough time to stand up, pull Eileen to her feet, and start running. As unsafe as it was, Henry kept letting off shots in front of him until the gun ran empty, praying they'd hit the nurses. Once or twice he thought he felt one of their weapons attempt to rake at his shoulders, but he didn't feel any new pain until he barreled through the heavy doors of the second wing of the second floor. Yanking Eileen too harshly into the hallway before slamming the door shut with his body, Henry slid to the floor, breathing heavily. He could vaguely hear the noises of the nurses just on the otherside, maniacally swinging their rusted weapons regardless of whether or not they were hitting each other. He sighed heavily, and looked up to Eileen standing next to him.

She was covered in bright red blood.

Henry scrambled to his feet, "Eileen! Eileen are you okay?"

She stared at him blankly through the curtain of blood on her face. There was a new gash on her shoulder and somewhere just above her hairline.

"I didn't hear you scream," Henry gaped quietly, "I'm sorry, are you oka—,"

He stopped in the middle of his sentence and stared at her.

"_Did_ you scream?"

Eileen bobbed her head noncommittally and walked around him, pacing her feet from toe to heel as though she wasn't injured at all.

"They laughed at me but I'm okay now," she said oddly, "I'm okay now because I have a Mommy."

Her name caught in his throat as he watched her walk in a wavering line. Swallowing hard and trying to blink the oddity of everything she was doing away, he morosely took her hand again.

Nothing helpful was in room 205, leaving them to go to room 206. Henry didn't know what hit him first—Eileen's troubled wail or the clicked gun pointing at his face.

Walter smiled at him and pulled the trigger.

Henry screamed and dropped to his knees for the second time within ten minutes. The shot fired above his head, pocking a hole in the wall and spraying dust about them.

"_I'm scawed!_" Eileen cried, cowering in the corner and biting her thumb nervously.

Henry wasn't.

He was _enraged_.

Every moment from the last five days built up in his head until he was certain he would burst. All of the nightmares he had had since the day he woke up to find his door lashed with chains burned brightly in his mind. Overlaying these images were Eileen's panicked screams and cries—whether or not they were happening in real time Henry didn't know. What he _did _know that it was all at the fault of the man in the coat standing in front of him, smiling as though he was winning a card game as he toyed with their lives—with their _sanity—_and that infuriated Henry. Never before in his entire life had he ever felt this sort of pure animal rage at anything. He wanted Walter, and he wanted Walter _dead_ for all that he was doing to them and to all the other poor people before them. Standing in Joseph's room 302 and listening to the absurd amount of times Joseph chanted _kill_ was unsettling to Henry at the time, but now he could think of nothing else. Had Joseph felt this way shortly before his death? Henry decided it must have been true. All of the lives that had been ruined and were still threatened by this _one man_ was almost unimaginable. What would've been different if Walter hadn't started killing people almost a decade ago? What would've been different if he hadn't been sent to the crazy cult on the skirts of Silent Hill? This man _utterly destroyed_ the lives around him at his will for his insane lust for Freudian happiness.

Henry figured that Walter had even destroyed his own life in his craze by settling his focus so narrow on room 302 rather than the world and people around him.

Was that Walter's fault? Henry didn't have the place to say, but he knew that everything from the start of the 21 murders _was_ his fault, and here in this hellish Other World threatening to take over the real world Henry could only feel his unbridled rage send burning fire through his muscles. His hands gripped tightly over the shovel and he charged, unleashing angry screams.

Though Walter had faltered at first he was quick to recover, parrying and attacking with the iron rod he held in his right hand. Nothing was smooth or coordinated with how the two men fought in the cramped apartment. Clumsy power was thrown behind each swing of the shovel, mimicking the blind rage that suddenly had possessed Henry. Walter was struggling to defend himself completely from the onslaught though no sign of strain or anger changed the insane man's thin smile. If anything Walter's eyes started to gleam in a sick sort of joy watching Henry lose himself to raw emotion. It was the second time this had happened to the quiet, reclusive man from room 302, but at this point in time it seemed much more potent than when he was fighting to protect Eileen from the gorilla monsters.

Walter was bleeding in more places than one, but Henry had many places where he would be expecting new bruises as he drove Walter to the back wall of the apartment. When he could go no further, Henry roared in rage before driving the blade of the shovel into Walter's ribs. His thin smile finally broke as Walter choked, coughing up blood. Keeping the shovel imbedded in the serial killer, Henry slowly regained control of himself, breathing hard.

Walter's coughs turned into laughs.

Before Henry could puzzle out why he was laughing his mind became split at the edges. Shards of the Saint Medallion that had faithfully protected him from Richard's ghost tumbled down his shirt.

"_SEPARATE FROM FLESH SHE WHO IS THE MOTHER REBORN"_

Her voice.

"_AND HE WHO IS THE RECEIVER OF WISDOM_"

_Her voice._

Henry pulled the shovel out of Walter's ribs and turned on his heel. Eileen stood behind him, muscles tense and spine erect. She looked as though some giant invisible hand was squeezing her tight, forcing her onto the tips of her toes. The words were spewing out of her mouth but it didn't _sound_ like her, not _rightly_ anyways. It was dull, droning, loud, and deep as though Eileen was speaking from the depths of her gut. Her body relaxed, released from the invisible hand, and she gasped, wailed in terror, started to say something (he swore it was the beginning of his name) before the hand grasped her again.

Henry watched in horror as she choked and wheezed. Dark, hideous tendrils snaked over her skin, painting her like a macabre tiger. The pain in his head intensified and Eileen started to speak in incoherent babbles and sounds, some of them so inhuman Henry was sure that it was impossible for her to create such a monstrosity of a noise. Her one visible eye clouded over and rolled into the back of her head leaving nothing but a mucous-smothered white orb in its place. Black ichor seeped from the corners of her mouth. Her body undulated unnaturally, choking as more of the thick liquid pooled in her mouth and slowly began to drip over her lips.

"_Eileen!_" Henry shrieked.

_Fear_ wasn't potent enough of a word to describe what had suddenly gripped him as the horrific scene unfolded before him. Henry had never felt a stronger emotion in his life up to this very moment. His heart had simply ceased to race, shuddering instead and sending actual, physical pain to all of his now weakened limbs. He felt now more than ever that he was trapped in some unthinkable nightmare where his courage failed him as the one person he managed to protect had a strange darkness possess her in front of his very eyes. A sharp sting drove itself like a sword from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet. Tears sprung to his eyes and Henry couldn't bear the strength of the despair clawing at his skin. All of his efforts to protect her he could see were now in complete vain. He had been strung up by his insides and choked by them. His wings had been torn out and he was left dying on the asphalt.

There was nothing he could do.

Henry rushed forward, barreling into Eileen, trying to _will_ her, _force_ her to snap out of it. Pushing her against the wall and pressing his body up against hers, he wailed as her shudders and convulsions were only slowed by his pressure instead of stopped. Eileen gurgled and ichor dripping from her mouth flowed freely, staining Henry's hunched shoulder. The liquid was hot and thick, sticking to his clothes and slowly spreading down his back.

"_Wake up_," Henry pleaded, "_Wake up, Eileen, please!_"

"Mother will. Yes, she will." Walter coughed. He was standing up, gripping his bleeding side with one hand. The gun was in the other, pointed at Henry.

Henry's arms wrapped around Eileen's torso and he fled down the apartment's hallway as another gunshot rang out. He ducked into the room at the side, filled with bunk beds. This was the apartment that the large family lived in, every space of wall filled with delirious children's writing. Eileen fell from his arms between two of the bunk beds. Henry's head screamed with pain as she resumed spouting nonsensical words and noises. Her body squirmed and undulated.

_I was the mannequin, Henry._

Henry let out a roar of frustration and sorrow. A Holy Candle laid on its side just above Eileen's head. Snatching it, he turned around to see Walter in the doorway, smiling even though blood was trickling out of the corners of his mouth.

"You can't save her, Receiver!"

Henry sprung to his feet and swung the shovel, catching Walter on the side of his head. Another gunshot, sounds of a ricochet. Fighting Walter out of the doorway, Henry turned, picked Eileen's trembling, feverishly hot body up, slinging her over his weary shoulder.

Walter stood at the end of the small hallway, blocking the way from 206 to room 207. Ducking though he was dangerously close to toppling over, Henry fled back down the hallway to the door. A gunshot rang out and the lights disappeared in a spray of glass. The room was flooded with darkness. Eileen shrieked.

"_Mommy! Mommy wake up SAVE ME, MOMMY! It's so dark, Mommy, SAVE ME!"_

Henry buckled as red shrouded his vision and pain throbbed between his eyes. Growling against the pain and tears he pushed his feeble weight against the door, stumbling into the crimson hallway.

His legs were weak but by some forgotten grace (or curse) they managed to carry him back past the bloated nurses and up the stairs to the third floor. Henry crashed against the iron bars, panting and weeping as Eileen's convulsions slowed to a weak stop. Her skin was still painted and etched with dark stripes and marks that covered her bruises to the point where he couldn't see the numbers on her back. The only evidence they were there were the raised bloody scabs that tickled his fingers if he ran his hand across them.

They were outside of room 303—her room. Coughing, crying, and trembling, Henry picked himself up, dragging Eileen to her feet. She stood on her feet without his support though she wavered precariously.

"Daddy? Where did Mommy go?" Eileen said morosely, her lip trembling in fear. Henry bit his lip and opened the door to her apartment.

Blood, still fresh, stained the carpet of the entry way, painting the walls and pooling in the shape of her body where she once lied dying. Much of the living area was in disarray from the attack, but Eileen didn't mention a word as they wandered cautiously into the room. Henry didn't hear a sound, giving him the sense that here would be a good place to rest and recuperate their (his) sanity.

Then the filthy weapon of one of the bloated nurses struck him across the face. Henry yelped and skittered backwards into Eileen. The nurse had been hiding in the offshoot hallway and now approached him, swinging the weapon maniacally. Henry raised the shovel to defend himself, crying out whenever the nurse scraped his fingers or knuckles. When it paused in the middle of its onslaught, Henry lashed out, giving it four strong hits before it collapsed. Relieved, he raised his foot to end its life.

Eileen's nightstick struck the back of his head and he stumbled forward. Before he could turn around it hit his back again, and again, intending to beat him relentlessly. Staggering away from her and stepping all over the nurse in the process, Henry turned around. Eileen's pupils were contracted as much as possible, and she swung the nightstick blindly. Coughing to regain his breath Henry watched in horror as she stepped forward, somehow aware that she wasn't hitting anything directly. The nurse attempted to stand up, falling in the line of fire to be beaten down again, this time for good.

Eileen did not stop, however, and moved forward again until her nightstick connected with Henry's shovel. Henry gritted his teeth as tears flowed down his cheeks, putting pressure against her and locking their makeshift weapons in a stalemate. He feared to push too hard against her should he accidentally hurt her, but there was strength behind the nightstick that seemed impossible and unnatural for her to wield.

"Eileen, _please_," he whispered, his voice tangled in brambles of pain and hurt, "Stop this. Please stop."

He knew it was futile.

The nightstick slipped away from the shovel and Eileen thrust forward into his gut. Henry choked and collapsed, groaning miserably. Curling up in a ball he prayed for everything to melt away into nothingness and waited for her to strike him again.

Instead though he heard a dull thudding noise as _though_ she was beating something, but it wasn't him. When she inevitably started emitting cries of pain Henry looked up in terror.

She was beating herself.

Panic closed his throat. Clambering to his feet, Henry wrapped his arms around her and forced her to the couch, sitting her down on the soft cushions. She screamed and squirmed away from him as he grabbed her wrist, holding it up and away from her so she wouldn't continue to beat herself.

Effectively holding her wrist far above her, Henry struggled to place everything down. Dropping the shovel just to the side of the coffee table he fished the empty gun out of his waistband to place on the table. Taking the Holy Candle out of its awkward position in his pocket, he carefully set it on the table in front of the gun, standing it up.

Before he could turn back to calming Eileen the Candle's wick burst into a gentle white flame. Henry stared at it curiously.

Eileen stopped screaming like a child.

Henry gingerly let her wrist go.

She curled up into a protective ball on the couch, probably due more to instinct than anything else. Henry sat down beside her as he watched the menacing dark markings slowly recede and fade from her skin until all of the scars and bruises were once again visible. Eileen started shivering uncontrollably, stirring from a restless slumber. Quietly, Henry watched her slowly come to, her eyelids heavy and her breathing harsh.

She blinked as if slowly recalling a memory, then screamed in terror. Struggling to push herself upright with such speed it seemed that something on the ground had frightened her, she shook her arm violently. Wincing and crying, Eileen wrenched her wrist free from the nightstick's tether. Picking the weapon up she threw it to the other side of the room with as much force as she could muster before curling up again and sobbing into her knees.

"Ei-Eileen?" Henry whispered, reaching out a hand to the shoulder of her broken arm.

"_Don't touch me!_" she screamed, causing him to flinch away, "Leave me alone!"

Henry breathed quietly, hurt, as she continued to sob. A strange sort of stubbornness that was never there before rose up in his chest and he placed his hand on her shoulder again, gently rubbing his thumb over the end of her collarbone. She flinched terribly and raised her head to stare at him. The fear and all the emotions that were missing the moment he met her in the Other World apartments were back, and a soft relief blanketed him if only for that moment.

"I said _don't touch me_," she cried, bringing her hand up to try and pry his away, "What don't you und—under, understa...,"

Her blistered, bloody fingers wrapped around his tightly and she continued to sob, hard enough that she could barely speak. She faced him, her head hanging down in shame as she cried.

"I c-can't," she blubbered, "H-Henry I _can't, _you, you're, you'll—,"

"I'll be alright," he muttered despite knowing in his heart it was the exact opposite of the truth.

"No," she wheezed, "You won't be. You'll die. I'll kill you."

"You won't," he managed past the lump in his chest.

"You don't know that," she countered softly.

Henry stared at her, for once never feeling heat rush to his face nor the persistent urge to turn his face away. He was still in shock from the terror he witnessed only minutes ago, staring at her with crushed hope. Though he desired more than anything else to be the one telling the truth he knew that her words held more weight than his. Still, such desire didn't outshine his desire for her to be as she was, _without_ the possession, _without_ the scars and bruises, _without_ wilting silently away from reality into a restless death. Henry wished he was in Eileen's position and she was in his—or someone else's entirely, preferably not connected to this. Yet, he wanted her here with him, for her company and compassion to drive away the utter loneliness, to confirm that this was happening and he wasn't already insane. He wanted her to be here to stay; his mind would break if he had to endure another episode of her babbling nonsensically, screaming for "mommy", and beating herself.

His mind was _already_ breaking.

Henry did not have a name for the unbearable pain in his chest as he stared at her. It was a sort of yearning so harsh he became forlorn as he sat there. Shivers ran down his spine, making him tremble and he could feel tears building up against his eyelids.

"Eileen," his voice faltered, "_Eileen_...,"

Before he could stop himself or shy away his arms pulled her close and wrapped around her tightly, holding her against his chest. She silently let him despite the fact that he was holding her too harshly, grimly looking at her bloodied apartment and watching as the Candle slowly burned away. Henry began to cry, pushing his face into her hair and digging his fingers into the skin on her shoulders and lower back. Eileen closed her eye, calmly listening to his heartbeat as his voice stuttered and wept.

"I'm sorry," Henry managed to cry, releasing her and holding her at arm's length despite the fact that tears were still pouring down his ragged cheeks, "I'm sorry, I just...I _don't want you to go_."

"Henry," Eileen said solemnly, looking him dead in the eye, "Thank you. I could've never have done for you what you've done for me. But..._please_. Don't sacrifice yourself for my sake."

Her voice held a heavy acceptance. Henry inhaled sharply as she spoke.

"I'd rather have you live than die trying to help—or save—me," she placed her hand on his arm, gentle and warm, "I mean that. If you see your chance to escape, then _get out_. Even if it's without me."

"No," Henry blubbered stubbornly.

Eileen smiled, a sad, genuine, defeated smile.

"I'm okay, Henry. I'll be okay."

It was a lie.

"I'm sorry if I hurt you," Henry whispered hoarsely, drawing in a breath that almost resembled a hiccup. Eileen studied him carefully, a deeper sort of sullen emotion clouding her features.

"Hold me. As tightly as you want. I don't care," Eileen breathed softly.

"I'll hurt you," Henry declined.

"_Shh, _Henry," Eileen pressed her body close to him, closing her eye before a tear could escape, "The Candle is burning."

Henry glanced at the object in question, noting that half of it was already gone. He shut his eyes tight and wrapped his arms around her again. She breathed quietly and deeply, seemingly extremely calm before her storm returned. Henry trembled but remained silent, struggling to take in every single detail of her here in the present with all of his senses and thoughts. Her hair no longer held any lasting scent of her shampoo, instead smelling of both fresh and old blood. Everything about her was weak and defeated—wrong, _horrendously_ wrong for how he wished to remember her, but he forced himself not to complain. She was here now, with him, however short their time was.

Eileen's face was pressed into the space between his neck and collarbone. She did not need to look over at the Candle to see that it was dying. The black force that had violated and replaced her mind was already seeping back inside.

"Oh Henry...," she whispered, barely audible even in the complete silence, "I'm so sorry it's this way...,"

Henry tightened his quivering arms around her and opened his eyes to see the dark tendrils begin to snake back onto her skin, growing and pulsating as her temperature rose. Tears sprung from his eyes, renewed, as he began to weep.

He was alone again.


	30. Chapter 30

_I've chosen the path of two smaller chapters because they split up nicer this way. The next chapter will also have a longer description/author comment._

* * *

**Chapter 30**

"You're hurting me," Eileen whined accusingly. Slowly retreating from her (he _had_ been clutching her rather harshly) Henry shifted away from her on the couch before standing up. The Holy Candle was nothing more than a drying puddle of wax on the coffee table, and Henry's hopes and dreams lied somewhere with the burnt, dead wick.

"Let's go," he said, the forced lack of emotion leaving his voice curt and low. Despite himself he offered his hand to her. She seemed not to notice it as she stood up on her feet.

"Is Mommy gonna be there?"

Henry didn't answer her.

As they left the room Henry saw the nightstick in the corner of his eye. It had fallen and rolled underneath the bottom cabinets in the small kitchen, leaving small smears of the remnants of monsters on the tile floor. The desperation in which Eileen had pulled the weapon off her wrist to chuck it across the room still burned in his mind. Somewhere beneath the malevolent marks on her skin she still had her conscience and memory—she was still Eileen, somewhere deep down. It was layered over with mortar, bricks, blood, and bone, but she was there and Henry had to force himself to believe that she would remain there, patiently waiting for him to help her break free of this Other World.

He left the nightstick where it was underneath the cabinets.

Eileen walked as though her physical pains no longer bothered her; she limped but only slightly compared to before, her feet never dragged, she didn't pant after a stretch of running, and there wasn't a pained squeak emitting from between her lips every other breath she took. It bothered Henry more than he would like to admit. On one hand he was glad that she was able to keep up now, on the other if she couldn't feel actual pain then Henry would have no radar of reference of how bad she was doing. He glanced back at her too often, making sure she was still behind him even though he could hear her footsteps echo on the grated and bloody floors.

Taking her hand, hot and dry within his, Henry fled past the remaining nurses, double-checking her afterward to ensure that she hadn't been hit again. As he gently brushed her forehead liquid came off, but it was black and gooey, similar to the ichor she had gurgled in room 206. Henry winced. Was her skin secreting that stuff now? He gave it a faint sniff—it smelled like sweet rotting flesh. Blinking back the hot tears in his eyes from the smell, he wiped his fingers and cautiously led her the rest of the way back to 206.

There were spots of blood, saliva, and ichor on the floors and walls of the room, all fresh from the short-lived brawl between Henry and Walter and Eileen's subsequent possession. Walter's fallen body lay awkwardly sprawled through the hole in the wall connecting rooms 206 and 207. He had either bled out or suffocated from blood flooding his lungs. Trying his best not to step on the corpse, Henry gingerly stretched his long leg through the hole, ducking down and going through before helping Eileen's inattentive form through as well.

Just as she got to the other side Walter's dead body jerked and grabbed Henry's leg. Henry screamed, letting go of Eileen and gripping the shovel over his head.

"_She's mine!_" Walter hissed. Within his voice was the same smile the killer had worn every time Henry had seen him; Walter wasn't fighting for possession over Eileen, he was simply _stating the fact_ that Eileen was already his—maybe even since they day he met her in the cold subway.

Henry closed his eyes and brought the shovel down, severing Walter's head from his body. Spurts of blood shot forward, soaking Henry's pant legs as the head dropped to the floor and rolled forward. Releasing a breath, Henry's shoulders sank and relaxed.

A box of pistol bullets, presumably left by Richard, rested on a bookcase near the hole. Uneasily moving past Walter's headless body, Henry took the box and reloaded the pistol. He took special care that the safety was on—now more than ever before he really didn't need to end up shooting himself in the leg. He rolled his shoulders to try to work the ache in them away (Eileen's massage had felt nice, but at this point no amount of massaging would ever fix his crappy muscles) and turned to her.

She was kneeling on the floor with Walter's head wrapped in her arms and pressed close to her chest. Her lip was quivering and she looked up at him with wide, childish eyes. Blood from the severed neck dripped down onto her exposed thighs and dress. Henry's stomach lurched from the sight and he felt as though he would vomit there at her knees. Swallowing hard instead, he eased himself to his knees and stared at her as steadily as possible. It took all of his power to resist slapping the head out of her weak arms before ushering her out of the room.

"Eileen, what's wrong?"

"Huh?" she sounded confused, "I don't wanna hurt anymore...,"

"Are you—," Henry gulped, "Are you being hurt? Are you in pain?"

She was quiet, as if she didn't know or didn't want to answer. Then she offered the head to him. Henry recoiled, lips shut tightly to prevent any expressions betraying his disgust. Walter's face was twisted; one eye was halfway shut and the other was open, his jaw was loose but it looked like he had died with his smile on his face. Blood had pooled in his mouth, staining his lips red.

Henry parted his lips to whisper something he never dreamed he'd ever say in a million years, "Eileen, please, talk to me." _Tell me you're there, something, anything._

_What is going on?_

Eileen's tongue ran over her lips in a weird, snake-like way. Her fingers went rigid on Walter's dead scalp and began to dig into the skin. Globs of slow-moving blood began to bead from beneath the head's grimy hair at the tips of her fingers. Nonsense spurted from her mouth, and red colors began to creep into the corners of Henry's vision.

"Prepare for the Ritual of the Holy Assumption," Eileen whispered, her voice layered as though she had spoken the same line multiple times all at once, "Offer the Blood of the Ten Sinners and the White Oil."

Henry scrambled to dig the new Saint Medallion out of his pocket.

"Henry TOWNSHEND," Eileen howled, "TWENTY-ONE OUT OF TWENTY-ONE, THE RECEIVER OF WISDOM,"

Blinded by the pain in his head, Henry closed his hands into fists and bashed the head out of her hands.

"_Mommy!_" she screamed, flinching and cowering from him. Henry spread the thin silver chain between his fingers and slipped it over his head, feeling the Saint Medallion hum as it took the pain away.

"Look at me!" he grabbed her shoulders. She did as he was told.

"This _has_ to stop!" he begged, "I can't go anywhere without you, you can't keep doing this!"

"Daddy!" she whimpered, "Daddy stop you're hurting me! _Mommy! Daddy hurted me!_"

Henry's hands clenched around her arms and he gritted his teeth. No! That's not _right!_ He _wasn't_ hurting her! He would _never_ hurt her! She was just so possessed that she wouldn't even hear him if he screamed in her face about how wrong she was. Maybe if he just slapped her across her stupid fucking _face_ she'd shut up for a damned second and _listen to him_ and _help him get out of here!_

Henry let out a devastated wail and released her arms, pushing himself backwards until he lied in a crumpled heap of limbs and clothing on the floor. The poisonous thought that had just plagued him played over and over word for word in his head, accompanied by a horrific movie of images of him tackling her to the ground and beating her face until his knuckles were bloody. Where that thought had come from he had no idea. Maybe Walter was attempting to possess him as well, that would make a lot of sense.

Or maybe it came from a dank and dangerous corner of his psyche, a demon from within him that he had seen through the peephole in his door. Henry's blunt fingers moved to his eyes, desperately checking to see if they were still there. He felt so pathetic and weak here, being torn apart brick by brick until even his foundation rotted away and left this hideous skeleton of a man whimpering in front of his possessed next-door neighbor with no means of escape.

He cared for her. He cared for her so deeply that it hurt him until his knees failed. He could not stand up. She was gone. He was destined to rot here.

A searing hot body curled up next to him and a child's voice whispered in his ear.

"It's okay, Daddy, I won't tell Mommy."

Henry moaned.

"I'm not 'daddy'."

"Then where is Daddy? Did he leave me all alone?"

He gulped, but remained silent.

"I wanna see him. I wanna see Mommy too." She started to shiver and cry.

Achingly, Henry pulled his wobbly feet under him, helping her to stand by supporting her torso and lifting her until she was on her feet.

"Okay. Let's go look."

Fine, he would treat her like a child if that's what it took. But it still hurt on the deepest level he could feel.

There seemed to be an atmospheric silence as he opened the door and stepped into the hallway outside of Richard's room. It was almost comforting despite the fact that there was another unclothed twin-faced monster climbing up a staircase to meet them. Henry disposed of it rather quickly, driving the shovel into the face between its arms. The only uncomfortable feeling came from a little boy's voice, a voice that Eileen had mimicked before, constantly calling out.

"_Dad? Dad...? Where's Dad? Dad...Why can't I see your face?"_

It sounded like the younger version of Walter, but Henry couldn't pinpoint where the voice was coming from. He didn't really mind though—things seemed much more peaceful on the first floor, perhaps there would be less things out for their blood.

A Holy Candle rested against the frame to apartment 106. Henry took it and pocketed it—though he dearly wanted to use it to bring Eileen back for just another moment the fact that the Candle was ultimately temporary left him no other choice than to save it just in case another poltergeist appeared in his room. He felt no need to enter either room 107 or 106—_if _there were monsters he was at the end of his rope and didn't want to risk both his and Eileen's safety because of it.

Room 105, though, was a different story. The words of the Crimson Tome and Joseph's notes flashed in his mind as he passed the superintendent's room. Joseph had suspected that part of the mother's flesh was in this room—though how Joseph came to think that he had no idea.

Then again...Henry vaguely remembered back before Eileen was attacked he had witnessed the conversation between her and Frank in which he mumbled something about keeping an umbilical cord in his room. Henry had later confirmed this by flipping through his diary the first time he came to the apartment world, and there was that box that smelled positively _awful_. If everything was true, and if the umbilical cord was from Walter's mother and counted as 'mother's flesh', then their ticket out of here must be in room 105.

There was just one problem.

Room 105 was blocked with multiple interlocking chains—more than had originally been on the inside of his door. After experimentally tugging and attacking with the shovel he could see that they would by no means budge and let him through. He grimaced and looked at Eileen before wandering out into the lobby. There had to be keys somewhere, or _some_ way to unlock that door.

A child's sketchbook, the only item he could see, lied open in the middle of the lobby. Henry crouched down to look at it. There were dark, angry scribbles vaguely forming the shape of a man. He knew perhaps too quickly that this was Walter's sketchbook, and this drawing was his attempt at creating what could be his father. Leaving the sketchbook as it was and standing back up, he oriented himself until he faced the other wing of the first floor.

Just as he was about to open the door he realized he had not heard Eileen's familiar footsteps behind him. He turned around to see her standing over the sketchbook, staring down at the drawing.

"Hey...," he called to get her attention, but she didn't even twitch. Stepping forward, swallowing, then stepping back, Henry ducked his head and opened the door without her. A hollow weight pressed on his stomach as he did so. He knew very well that he had just betrayed her one request to him before they left Joseph's room 302, but, damn it, this was too important. This could very well mean her life.

Henry coughed and choked, knowing he was only making excuses for himself. In reality he had slowly become afraid of her.

Down the hall was a hanging corpse, wrapped in rotting flesh. A forlorn yawning sound seemed to emerge from it, calling to Henry to approach it. As he did the corpse began to fade, but not without a violent, angry voice tearing through his mind.

_Oh, shut the hell up! You can't blame it all on me!_

Henry shuddered and stepped back as the corpse disappeared.

From 104 he could hear another distorted cry. Henry entered the room, finding another corpse within.

_I told you we shouldn't have a baby, didn't I?!_

This voice—the hatred and desperation against the birth of a baby. Henry could only guess it was Walter's father. He left the room, a little dazed.

"Receiver...,"

Readying the shovel as the twin-faced monster charged, he beat it to the ground until it wouldn't rise anymore. Another, unclothed one, followed and he did much the same to it without much issue. He entered room 103.

Two unclothed monsters charged him and he had barely enough time to push them back with the shovel. Digging the gun from the waistband of his pants, he fired off each shot until they both writhed on the ground. He ended their lives with two well-placed stomps, then searched the room for the moaning corpse.

_Anyway, let's get outta here! I can't stand it anymore!_

Room 102, another corpse.

_If the super hears him we're in trouble. There's just something about that guy—I don't like the looks of him!_

Henry thought it strange. If there was anything faulty that _he_ could see (and granted he didn't know the super well) it was only that Frank was a little senile, and perhaps with good reason. The super's son had gone missing not too many years ago along with his wife. They still haven't even found the body or any clue of where they could've gone.

Henry became dizzy as he stepped back out into the hallway.

What if they had gone to Silent Hill? What if they had gotten caught up in this horrific cult?

It was a stupid thought, but given Henry's current circumstances it wasn't too far off. Pushing the idea from his mind, he entered the last room—101—and found another corpse.

_Hurry up! Get packed!_

Exiting, he turned to the final corpse hanging at the end of the hallway.

_Stupid little crybaby..._

Henry swore he heard a door slam—as if it was the parents' untimely exit, leaving the newborn Walter Sullivan on the floor of his apartment, room 302. His mind swam and he began to feel sick from the dizziness. What the hell was this hallway for? Torment, confusion? He hadn't found any keys in the rooms he searched (then again he was inexplicably attracted to the moaning corpses) but something told him he even would find them if he scoured every nook and cranny of this hallway and its apartments. Yet he hoped that the disappearance of the corpses meant something. Maybe he had found the keys after all.

He pushed open the door to the lobby to find Eileen slowly rocking herself on her feet, the sketchbook clutched in her arms. Henry stopped in his tracks.

"Eileen...?"

She was sniveling and sobbing, twitching every now and then as she rocked herself as some meager means of comfort. Her back was to him, but at the sound of his voice she raised her head.

"Daddy? Where are you? Where did you _go?_" she cried, her voice, child-like, reaching a pitch that she couldn't hold due to her wails and cries, "Mommy? _Mommy_! _Whyyy...?!_"

The volume of her voice raised and Henry rushed forward, placing his hands on her arms and shaking her gently.

"_Why..._Why won't you _wake up_?"

He shook her again, pulling her shoulder until he could see her face. His brows were knitted in worry—at least she had the appearance of being lucid before with only momentary bits of insanity, but _this_, this was purely insane. She sounded lost, scared, beaten, desperate—Henry could come up with a thousand more words to describe her voice as she sputtered, cried, then turned to look at him.

Her visible eye lit up. Henry's heart lurched.

"H-Henry? I-I, _ah, my head, AHH!_"

Her knees failed her as the recognition in her eye disappeared. Henry's hands followed the suffering woman until she was on the floor, ensuring that she wouldn't collapse and hurt herself. The cries of pain she emitted echoed in the lobby until the childishness returned with another forlorn cry.

"_Mommyyy!_"

The hand that rested on her good shoulder frantically moved to her arm. The Saint Medallion around his neck buzzed and hummed intermittently with her lucidity, but Henry knew it wasn't because she was beating the possession—rather, it was Walter toying with the both of them. Eileen bobbed and rocked herself back and forth on her knees. She spoke again as if she was lucid, but her words betrayed how far her mind had gone.

"Henry, that _boy_, I have to help him...,"

She tried to shake off his hands as she stood herself up again, but Henry held firm even after she had found her footing. Somewhere above them a wire creaked, causing Henry to look up in curiosity. A strange distortion of a woman's body was hanging and swinging precariously, strung up by her nipples. A long, rusted conical mask covered her face. Instinctively Henry drew his arms closer around Eileen despite the Medallion warning him that that wasn't a good idea.

"Can you hear me?" he whispered to Eileen as he stared at the swinging monstrosity.

She didn't answer him.

Henry shut his eyes so tightly it hurt. The Medallion buzzed hotly against his chest, and he let Eileen go. The sketchbook tumbled back to the floor of the lobby, forgotten. He did not offer his hand to her as he turned and left to go see if the superintendent's room was open. She followed him.

He almost wished she didn't.

The chains in front of the superintendent's door had disappeared completely. Relieved, Henry entered it without thinking, allowing Eileen to go inside first before he shut the door behind him. The pungent smell from the little red box sitting on Frank's shelf pierced Henry's nostrils. Moving past where Eileen was standing the entryway, he bit back the tears springing from his eyes as he picked up the box. Holding his breath, he slowly removed the cover.

A shriveled-up cord lied on a small bedding of stained tissue and gauze. It was such a surreal thing that the smell hardly remained in his mind as he stared at it. The more he stared at it the more he felt like he was being sucked in. Before he could tear his eyes away flashes of grainy images roared through his head—a baby covered in blood and blankets on the floor, its umbilical cord wrapped around it; the floor it was resting on looked like room 302; two adults standing in the doorway, one weeping, the other sneering at where the baby was. Voices shrieked in his head, a baby screamed and cried, the door slammed shut, Henry fell to his knees with a screech of pain, dropping the box and its lid. Somehow he managed to utter that his head burned, but he couldn't hear himself speak as he quietly rocked himself back and forth much as Eileen had done to try and nurse away the pain.

As the pain and harshness slowly ebbed away he could hear Eileen's quiet, scared voice muttering behind him.

"Daddy...? Mommy...? Why did you leave me?"

Henry growled pathetically and coughed softly, trying to force the rest of the pain away so he could listen.

"I'm scared...I'm so scared! It's dark, and I'm so scared!" her voice collapsed into incoherent sobs before she screamed and ran forward. Henry choked as Eileen's closed fist began to beat his back. It hurt, but her hits lacked strength behind them. Still, he shut his eyes tightly and prayed for her to stop as he fell forward onto his hand. Struggling to see past the spots dancing in his vision, he glanced back at Eileen just in time for her to stop suddenly as if she had heard something.

"Mommy?"

Henry's limbs scraped as he unsuccessfully tried to stand up.

"_Mommy?_"

Breathing heavily, Henry pushed himself up to a sitting position as he turned to stare at Eileen through squinted eyes.

"Mommy...?" she whispered as she stepped away from him. Making sure the umbilical cord was safe in its box from where he dropped it, he stood up slowly, box in hand. She began to cry and chew on her cracked nails.

"Are you ashleep?" she asked through her fingers. The Saint Medallion began to burn hotly against his chest. Henry heeded its warning and stayed back even though he wished he could shake her out of it like he had briefly done before. Hell, there was a Holy Candle in his pocket—damn the poltergeists, he had made her a promise!

"Mommy...I'll wake you up. I will!" With a burst of sobs Eileen ducked her head and started running to the door. Henry jolted, darting after her but by the time he was close enough to reach out and touch her shoulder the door had slammed in his face.

Something told him that if he opened that door she would not be within running—within _saving—_distance of him.


	31. Chapter 31

_Hey guys. This is my final note to you. You all have been great over all these years. I can't believe we're finally here..._

_I won't get mushy on you, I promise. If you want to find me I'm on Tumblr (username brezifus). Here's how the rest of the story is going to go:_

_From here on it becomes a choose-your-own-adventure. Regardless of the fact that the novelization was written in favor of "Escape" or "Eileen's Death", all four of the endings will be written and posted as separate chapters._

_And now...enjoy the rest of Silent Hill 4._

* * *

**Chapter 31**

A child's drawing was outside the door—a drawing of a woman being torn to pieces by a hellish machine. Henry did not need to guess that it was meant to represent Eileen.

The world sank and blurred around him, becoming nothing more than a grotesque impressionist painting as Henry ran through the corridors of the complex, fighting pain of all kinds as his feet carried him back to room 302.

There was the emotional pain that had been gradually growing in his mind as he witnessed and _felt_ Eileen deteriorate into a bloodied marionette hanging broken on its cruel strings. He had grown far more attached to her than he had ever conceived he possibly could. Somewhere in the core of his body there was a deep pit that stretched from his throat to his stomach that he only became aware of whenever he imagined her presence. The pit itself was empty, but it seemed as though it was _made_ to be that way—that all the pain the hollowness was causing was for a purpose Henry wasn't quite sure he understood or ever would understand. Henry did not have the gall to call it _love_, there was something about this empty pit of emotion that seemed to roar that giving it a name would be disgraceful and pretentious. No word he could create would ever name the pit he felt, and he was okay with that. It suited him; a nameless emotion to define a nameless man stuck in a nameless world where he ironically mattered more than he ever did in the real world. In this nameless emotion he found a great urgency atop a greater weight, forcing his tired legs to move as fast as they could. He wanted this pain to have a reason to exist, and without her, his emotions didn't exist.

There was a dangerous mental pain that had been plaguing him since the night of the first day he was locked in his pitiful apartment room. It was slowly been plucking at the hairs on the back of his neck, scraping its dirty claws along his back to usher him into a descent into madness. Henry was terrified that if he were to let this pain run rampant and unchecked it would throw him into a dark room and slam the door behind him. Terrified that he would never recover, and that the only light he would ever see again would be the sharp artificial light of a nice padded room. This fear only played a funny role, because while fear of insanity kept the madness away, fear was also the same thing opening the door for Henry to step into the dark room to forever be lost there. He was strained to his limits, and Eileen's abrupt departure was so close to shattering him his voice was uttering in spurts of screams and whispers as he wove his way through the apartment complex. Time and time again he tried to clamp his mouth shut to stop himself from such wild nattering, but, as his tears soon showed, he couldn't stop himself. As he bounded up the stairs to the third floor a heavy truth fell on his shoulders. It was possible he was going to be lucid again, but this mental pain would never leave him. If Henry Townshend lived, he would never, ever be the same.

And, of course, there was the physical pain. His pain threshold was never high to begin with, and as he ran he could feel every inch of his body pulse from all of the wounds he bore. Blood, pus, and dirt stained his skin and clothes, matted his hair, and became familiar on his tongue. He was in so much pain he had forgotten what it was like to feel normal, to wake up with the wind on his face and stretch sleepily under his cozy blankets before catching a few more minutes of slumber. Yes, this pain would ultimately leave him but it would make its permanent mark. He hadn't yet looked, but there were bound to be lots of ugly, angry scars from all the skirmishes and fights for his life. All of it made him ready to collapse. It was the most immediate threat to his life and he knew it, but at the same time it was the only reminder he had that he (and by extent, Eileen) was still alive. If he could cut himself and see blood seep from the wound, that was his only symbol of hope. He clung to that pain. He clung to that hope.

That hope, however, was quickly becoming buried underneath an avalanche of panic and fear. Not for himself, but for Eileen. As his hand closed around the door knob of room 302 and the cries of all the monsters he had shouldered past began to echo down the hallway all of the hopes and fears he had built for himself melted away, replaced with the monumental fear of his failure to protect the only person he was able to protect.

He wanted to believe Eileen was alive, but how could that be true? She was the twentieth Sacrament, and he was the twenty-first. What was there to say that Walter wouldn't just take the first available opportunity to kill Eileen and wait for Henry to fall into his trap?

Nothing.

The sheer power of the anger and panic that kept all the pain away from Henry caused him to bend over the trunk in his hallway one last time. The handgun was traded for Richard's full revolver. Henry took out the ampoule he acquired from the hospital and carefully put it in his pocket, hoping the glass wouldn't break. Finally, with a Saint Medallion around his neck, the worn paper-cutter and the box with the umbilical cord in his other pocket, the revolver in his waistband, and the shovel in his hands, Henry approached the hole leading to where Walter's true corpse was rotting.

"_I'm always watching you,"_

A muffled voice from his room startled him. It was gritty as though it was being emitted from the speakers on his phone. Henry paused to listen for only a moment before forcing himself to move on, goosebumps rising up from the small of his back.

"_I'm always watching you,_" the voice from the phone taunted as he crouched and stepped through the hole.

"_I'm _always _watching you._"

Yes. Henry knew.

He didn't know how he knew but Henry knew that he was always being watched, no matter who it was that was watching him, be it human or anguished spirit, but he had no time to fish out his last Holy Candle to pacify it. The voice followed him through the wall and danced around his ears as he stared at the bare concrete crucifix where Walter's body should've been.

At the base of the crucifix was a round, metallic pool. If he listened hard enough, despite the phone, he thought he could hear a distant mechanical churning coming from the pool. Heaving in a breath and summoning the same courage he had summoned when he first entered the hole in his bathroom, Henry jumped into the pool.

"_I'm always watching you_."

The last words of the possessed phone seemed to echo around Henry's head as his world turned black.

–

Henry awoke, suspended in a red room. His aching limbs were gently folded into a fetal position, and as he unfolded them he felt as though there was an invisible sheet around him that unfurled as he did so. A soft, low, steady beat filled the air with comforting ambiance as Henry gingerly reached down with his toes until they touched solid ground. He had entered the room suspended in nothing but air, bringing way too many suggestions of a child in a mother's womb to Henry's feeble mind.

When his feet were firm and flat on the stone ground he finally observed the room. It seemed he had entered from the hole above him where there was a bright white light shining down. Despite the brightness, the circular room was washed in a red color, bringing an eerie glow to the arches that bordered the room. Inside the arches were indistinguishable humanoid bodies, washed in blood and melded with the wall behind them. Henry would've backed up in shock, but his heel soon teetered over another edge and he turned around. In the center of the room was another hole. Gripping the shovel and hoping this landing was going to be as soft as the last, Henry closed his eyes and jumped.

His feet hit the floor suddenly but painlessly. Stumbling a little before standing up straight, Henry gazed around in awe-struck horror. In the center of the circular marble floor was a churning pool of blood, continuously disturbed by a medieval-esque machine. The machine was comprised of several spiked iron rings haphazardly orbiting around a central iron ball, similarly adorned with spikes. On the close side of the mechanism was the giant resemblance of a human's upper body, wrung up with bodily cords—symbolizing umbilical ones, Henry guessed. He would've ignored the rest of it, but suddenly its bald head raised up and roared. Pale, dead skin stretched from its face to its collarbone without forming to its neck. Between the strings of skin Henry could see the gory insides of the giant being.

_The Conjurer's true body_.

Henry walked forward, eyes fixed on the giant being until they fell on the figure dressed in long dark coat standing before him. His gaze turned into a glare.

Walter Sullivan still wore his damning calm smile in contrast with the murderous intent in his eyes. Blood stained the killer's coat, hair, and skin but he seemed to wear it with a casual sort of pride, an embellishment on his coat cementing his rule as emperor. Walter stared at him with an unshared humor, taunting Henry's anger. Henry was two seconds away from leaping at his throat and starting the fight then and there when slight movement and the sound of a woman's shoe on pavement caught his attention.

There was a simple stone staircase that descended into the pool of blood , bordered by plain columns. At the top of the staircase stood a blank-stared Eileen, unaware of her surroundings and completely and utterly under Walter's control. Henry's heart did a turn and he fixed his eyes back on the serial killer, intensifying his glare.

"Mom! _Mom!_" young Walter's voice filtered in from some unknown area, "Let me in! Mom!"

The Walter that stood in front of Henry raised his arms and face to the ceiling, his smile broadening as he answered.

"Hey there, little Walter! Just a _little longer_, now!"

His arms dropped back down to his sides and his unfeeling eyes once again became fixed on Henry. Just beyond Walter's face Henry could just see Eileen standing as stiff as a cadaver as Walter spoke.

"Henry...you're it. The last of the 21 Sacraments...," Walter's voice became thick with a long-awaited murderous lust, "The Final Sign..._The Receiver of Wisdom!_"

Eileen's legs shivered as she began to walk towards the staircase ending in the pool of blood and her ultimate death. Henry's legs trembled as his fists closed tightly around the shaft of the shovel...before he turned on his heel and fled in the opposite direction.

Maybe it was crazy, but the sight of Eileen cleared his anger for just a moment for Henry to remember what the Crimson Tome had advised, and that gave him enough time to remember the umbilical cord in his pocket.

_If thou would stop the Descent of the Devil, you must bury part of the Conjurer's mother's flesh within the Conjurer's true body._

Pulling the box out of his pocket as he ran, he opened the lid and grabbed the tissues holding the dried umbilical cord. Biting his lip and trying not to gag, he wedged it between two strands of skin. The giant creature cringed, causing Henry to stumble back in fear that it would attempt to attack him. Tripping over his own feet, he fell to the floor as the creature roared in pain. Walter, too, had fallen and contorted as though his pain was connected with the creature's. Henry gulped, and as he got to his feet he noticed eight stone arches circling the room. Here too, much like the red room above, the arches acted like an open coffin for eight bodies. The only thing that differed was that here the bodies were pierced with forked spears.

The words of the Crimson Tome repeated in his head and Henry scrambled forward to the nearest body. He could briefly see the body's features as he tugged on the jutting spear until it came loose. Walter was already on his feet as Henry rushed to the creature, impaling the spear in its sour flesh.

Walter staggered, but kept on his feet. His body had become cloaked in shadow, moving like a mirage. One moment Henry had ran past him to get the next closest spear to the creature, the next Walter's hated face appeared in front of him out of thin air. Henry screamed and ducked out of instinct, his heart racing as the weapon Walter was wielding whizzed over his head. Trying to weave away from Walter, Henry tore out the spear from the body—_wait, didn't this body look familiar?_—and fled back to the creature. Stabbing it with the spear, he continued running until he had almost reached the farthest stone arch, next to the staircase where Eileen had taken another step towards her doom.

"_Please hold on,_" Henry whispered urgently as he tugged the spear out of a particularly feminine body with an exaggerated bust. As the spear came free Henry's eyes widened, recognizing the vague features as Cynthia—victim 16/21. Tucking the spear under his arm, Henry avoided staring at the body, shamed though he very well knew there was nothing he could've done in the end to save the first victim he met and promised to protect.

The next body within the arch resembled Jasper. Henry removed the spear and turned to run to the next arch. Walter's laughter filled the air, followed by erratic gunshots. Falling to the concrete, Henry hissed through his teeth as his hands cracked from the impact. His hisses soon turned to whimpers as he desperately crawled to the next body, keeping as low to the ground as possible.

Walter's feet appeared in front of him and Henry froze, glancing up to see the serial killer raise the pole-like weapon in his hands over his head. Clutching the spears and shovel close to his chest, Henry rolled away just in time, hearing the weapon hit nothing but concrete. Scraping himself to his feet and shoving Walter aside (as if that would help), Henry pulled the spear out from the overweight body. With the three spears in hand, he raced to the creature, finding Walter's shadowy figure there before he was.

Henry wasted no time and stuck the three spears in the monster's flesh, causing Walter to collapse in pain. A part of him wanted to kick the man as he ran past, but Henry resisted as he saw Eileen take another step to the staircase in his peripheral vision.

The bodies that held the spears on this side of the room did not look like people Henry knew—victims of Walter's onslaught that he did not have the privilege (or curse) to meet. Though he would not like to admit it, the lack of recognition allowed Henry to retrieve the spears faster as his mind was focused on defeating the creature rather than the bodies themselves.

Eileen took the first step down the staircase as Henry forced his feet to hurry, narrowly dodging an attack from Walter.

The machine's whirring began to mimic the sound of a ticking clock in Henry's mind. Though he had dodged the first attack, Walter had followed through with the butt of his gun, striking Henry between his shoulder blades. He fell forward, his feet twisting awkwardly as he did so. Again he saw Eileen take another step down the stairs. The panic rose to his throat as two of the three spears skittered away from him, one of them teetering over the edge of the pool of blood. Henry yelped in horror, his voice turning into a shriek when Walter brought the pole down on the backs of his knees. Somewhere in the midst of his hysteria he could understand Walter's logic: He was stalling Henry, dragging his time out as much as possible to ensure that Eileen walked straight to her death.

Before he could become trapped, Henry scrambled on all fours, picking up the second spear as he pulled himself to his feet. A sharp pain struck him across the back again, and Henry staggered. Coughing, heaving, and considering himself lucky that Walter miraculously didn't upset his broken rib, Henry turned around with a snarl.

The pole struck him across the face before Henry could raise anything in defense. A deep gash opened on his cheek, pouring fresh blood down his jaw and neck. Spitting too much liquid to only be saliva, Henry blindly swung the shovel with one hand. Walter fired the gun and Henry flinched, for one horrible moment believing he had been shot again. When the pain didn't come he had an awful vision of Eileen being shot instead. Gripping the shovel with both hands, he hit Walter with a high overhand swing, and before he could recover he thrust the shovel into Walter's arms before turning and picking up the third and final spear.

Had he time to stop and think about what he had done he would've slapped himself for practically gift-wrapping the shovel for the psychopath out for his blood. But as Eileen descended one more step he was forced to run on reflex and reflex alone.

The final spears pierced the creatures flesh and it screamed. Walter's knees crumbled underneath him as all sense of mirage and shadow seemed to escape his body. Henry took the opportunity to attempt to wrestle the shovel away from the grimy-haired man. Walter's hands had clasped around it tightly, though, and soon both men were caught in a vicious tug-o-war. Henry attempted to dig his heels into Walter's feet, and Walter returned by spitting a large wad of saliva in Henry's eyes. Blinded, but refusing to let go of the shovel, Henry felt himself get swung about as Walter shoved him to the stone floor. Still gripping the shovel, he pushed Henry onto his back, pressing the shaft of the shovel against the shy man's grizzled neck.

It was at that point that Henry realized that his head was hanging over the pool of blood. The pressure that Walter put on his neck caused him to squirm and arch backwards in an attempt to gasp for air. Warm blood soaked the back of his head as the spiked rings of the machine whizzed so close by he could feel the wind hit the bridge of his nose. Amidst desperate gasps and coughs, Henry began to scream with whatever breaths he could muster. Walter pressed harder in an attempt to silence him, and tears sprung from Henry's eyes from the unbearable pain as his neck was squeezed between the shovel and the edge of the floor. Spots of darkness began to dance in his vision and his legs flailed and scraped against the stone. A hideous choke escaped him in place of a cry for help.

"You won't die yet, but I can make you _suffer_, Receiver," Walter hissed.

Henry gurgled angrily, and in one final act of desperation he kneed Walter between the legs. The pressure on Henry's neck let up enough for him to inhale a deep gasp before kneeing Walter in the same place again. Pushing up against the shovel as Walter weakened, Henry grunted and shoved him away. Lifting himself up off the floor even though his body felt impossibly heavy, Henry began to violently cough, shivering as cooled blood trickled down the back of his neck. Wiping the remainder of saliva from his eyes, he took the ampoule from his pocket, broke it, and haphazardly injected it into his arm. It might not work right away, but he could swear he felt himself stand a little straighter and feel a little lighter on his feet.

With the shovel back in his hands and Walter struggling on the floor, Henry did not wait before he started beating the serial killer. He had killed him before, and if he had to kill him one more time, then so be it.

Despite the onslaught, Walter recovered quicker than Henry expected and sooner rather than later he found himself frantically and messily parrying and attempting to dodge Walter's counterattacks. Blood dribbled from cuts and gashes on both of their faces as they battled each other. It creased into their skin according to the way their faces scrunched—Walter's with snarls and lunatic smiles and Henry's with desperate rage and animalistic fear. At some point it occurred to Henry that Walter ceased to appear human long ago, which made him wonder if something similar had happened to him.

Suddenly the pole cracked down on the shaft of the shovel. Henry had raised it just in time to not be hurt, but they were now locked against each other. It soon became a battle of strength, a battle that Henry could see from the beginning he was going to lose. Walter was more or less a powerful man, and Henry was not only weak to start out with but also wounded and exhausted.

Then a sly, eager smile crept across Walter's face, and in one smooth motion he broke the lock, running one weapon against the other and making sure to cruelly strike the knuckles on Henry's right hand. Yelping in shock and pain, Henry dropped one side of the shovel, struggling to shake off the pain as quick as possible. Making a split-second decision to fight one-handed he wildly swung the shovel in front of him. Walter, mimicking what Henry had done to him in the forest, barreled into Henry as his arm was stretched across his body, locking him in place. Twisting Henry's wrist until he heard a crack, Walter smiled as Henry screamed and dropped the shovel completely.

To Henry, it was a nightmare come to life. Walter stepped back, struck him with all his might, and picked up the shovel. Henry twisted and collapsed to his knees, panting heavily. Walter threw the shovel out to the machine. There was a horrible grinding sound of metal on metal, and what was left of the faithful weapon disappeared into the blood below it. Then Walter struck him again, making Henry so dazed he could barely struggle until Walter's knee dug into the small of his back and the pole had found its way to the space between his jaw and trachea.

Walter tugged harshly, pulling Henry's head up. Tears scrolled down his cheeks, carving meager pathways in the blood.

"I _told_ you that you could suffer," Walter hissed again, "_Look_, Henry! There she is!"

Eileen had taken many steps towards the pool of blood, and she was not about to stop even when Henry was trapped and unable to fight.

"_The Mother Reborn_, in her splendor, about to be baptized before you!"

Tears flooded Henry's eyes as Eileen took another step down, another step towards the machine, another step towards not only her death but his as well.

And in the wake of their deaths and all their pain there would be the birth of a Monster.


	32. 21 Sacraments

**21 Sacraments**

Did she scream?

Did she scream as the blood pooled around her breast and did she scream as the machine tore into her, and did she scream as regardless of the pain her body kept moving her forward until there was no question if any part of her remained?

Did she scream for him to run to her side and ease the pain away?

Did she scream for him to protect her even if it was his own life he was going to throw away?

Did she scream for him?

Or did she scream for _him?_

Henry didn't know. He didn't hear it over the sound of his wailing shriek, shrouded in sorrow and throbbing with pain. Something had splattered on his exposed skin and his scream intensified to a howl. The pole had moved away from underneath his neck, freeing him, but he did not wish to move. His body fell to the ground like a ragdoll, completely lifeless save for a pained heaving with each scream.

Gone.

_All gone_.

All for nothing.

Another broken promise.

But he couldn't even hold this one in his arms as her life slowly ebbed away. He couldn't even cherish her last moments.

It was over.

It was all over and done.

Henry could see the shadow of Walter as he raised the pole high, intent on stabbing Henry through the heart. Yes, he was going to be killed now, wasn't he? After the Mother Reborn comes the Receiver of Wisdom; after 20 comes 21.

He closed his eyes just as the pole came down.

It struck nothing but stone.

Henry scrambled to his feet, taking advantage of Walter's shock by tackling him full force. Henry's screams turned into roars of rage as he began to relentlessly punch Walter's face well after his own knuckles became sore and bloody. _Walter would not kill him!_ Not today! Not ever! Eileen may have died but _Henry was still alive! _If he had to die then he would take Walter with him!

Walter's body lay dazed underneath. Trembling in anger, Henry couldn't take his eyes off of him as he reached over for the sharpened pole Walter had used as a weapon.

Henry made no parting words as he drove the pole into Walter's throat until the head was all but severed. Blood sprayed like an erratic fountain, staining what was left of the serial killer and washing Henry in a deep red.

Stumbling back from the body, Henry felt a smile creep at the corners of his mouth. But before he could relish and rejoice in his victory a splitting pain cleaved his head in two and he screamed in pain, falling to his knees. The pain was relentless, and instead of staying in his head like it normally did it began to spread to every inch of his body. Completely paralyzed, Henry found himself floundering on the stone floor. Though he could see Walter's corpse in his blurry vision, a second Walter's feet walked up to him. Henry raised a shaking hand. His skin was covered in dark tendril-like stripes, not dissimilar to Eileen's skin in her final moments of lucidity.

A voice boomed in his head, forcing him into a trembling fetal position.

_HENRY TOWNSHEND_

_THE TWENTY-FIRST SACRAMENT_

_THE RECEIVER OF WISDOM_

_21/21_

Henry screamed in pain and never stopped even after the breath left his exposed lungs.

–

Walter nestled his small body into the decayed and bloody cushions of his Mother, sighing happily.

"Mom...Mom, I'm home. I won't let _anyone_ get in my way,"

He caressed the edge of Her, smiling sweetly. She breathed with him, accepting him into Her arms, but She did not speak to him. Her silence weighed heavy in the Room as Walter shifted from caressing to grasping.

"I'm gonna stay with you _forever_."

She still did not speak. But She was his Mother, and he would do _anything_ to ensure Her safety and revival.

No one would touch Her again.

–

_And now, the news._

_Yesterday, in Ashfield and the woods near Silent Hill, the bodies of five apparent murder victims and a sixth severely wounded female were discovered. The woman was immediately rushed to St. Jerome's Hospital, but died a short time later of her injuries. She has been identified as a Miss Eileen Galvin of Ashfield. The last body discovered was found in room 302 of the South Ashfield Heights apartments. It is believed to be that of its occupant, Henry Townshend, but the body was reportedly disfigured beyond recognition, making identification impossible._

_Once again, we've got late breaking news._

_Five unnamed police officers have been found dead, for reasons unknown, in the South Ashfield Heights apartments, along with its superintendent, Mr. Frank Sunderland. All other residents of South Ashfield Heights have been rushed to St. Jerome's Hospital, many complaining of severe chest pains. These strange incidents are similar to the ones which occurred in Silent Hill some years ago._

_More news to follow as it unfolds._


	33. Mother

**Mother**

If the _Mother Reborn_ had to be baptized in blood, if whoever this _Mother_ was had to be born again in the first place, it would not happen to Eileen and it would not be done by Walter's hand. No. Henry didn't deserve to bear witness to this. Eileen didn't deserve to play her part in this.

Henry's hand moved to his pocket. The morphine he had injected before had started to work its magic and he could feel his pain melting away as his fingers closed over the handle of the paper-cutter. It wasn't much, but it would do its job as he sliced the blade over Walter's knuckles.

Walter let out a shriek of rage as the pole dropped from Henry's neck. Twisting his body around, the disheveled man dug the knife into the killer's abdomen, taking too much pleasure in his screams of pain. Bunching his muscles up, Henry overthrew Walter, pushing him off to stand up and turn around.

Growling and snarling, Walter charged, pole held out in front in an attempt to shove Henry into the pool of blood. Panicking, Henry ducked and rolled to the side, scrambling to his feet as Walter skidded to a stop just before the edge of the pool.

The idea struck, and though Henry was painfully aware that he was much more weakened than his adversary, he rushed forward. Walter had recovered fast, and instead of an easy push forward Henry was suddenly locked in another tug-o-war between Walter's weapon.

Neither men backed down; Henry putting all of his final strength in his feet and arms and Walter sneering and trying to prolong their confrontation as much as he could. As they struggled Henry grit his teeth, glancing past Walter to see Eileen. She was in the middle of the staircase, still purposely oblivious to the unfolding finale before her. There was still time, but it was ticking away fast and Walter was slowly overpowering him. The tendons on his hands showed through his skin as he gripped the pole, stubbornly unwilling to let go.

Eileen took another step and Henry gurgled. He had one chance, and if he couldn't make it work the first time then he might as well lay down and wait for Walter to brand him with his own set of numbers.

Henry loosened his grip on the pole, curled his leg, and kicked Walter in the stomach. There was one moment of silence, one moment of pure lucidity as he watched the madman's face turn from concentration to shock. If there was any time for fear to form on his face, Henry didn't see it. He had shut his eyes tight, waiting for Walter's body to get chewed up by the whirring machine. Blood and stray chunks splattered on Henry's face and body and the ragged man stumbled back until he fell on his hindquarters.

Behind him the creature screamed in pain as it slowly died, and the ground beneath him began to rumble and crack. He heard Eileen's voice cry out in shock as she regained herself, and Henry opened his eyes. Wiping the blood and guts away from them, he called out her name in worry. Boulders fell from the ceiling as Walter Sullivan's world collapsed around them and their world fell back into darkness before she could respond to his call.

–

Henry awoke with a start in his room. The heavy air had lifted, replaced with a soothing calm that made his limbs feel soft and warm. Slowly he pulled himself up until he was sitting on his bed. Taking in a deep breath, he relaxed for the first time in five days. Welcoming the benevolent atmosphere of the room, he eased himself onto his sore feet. Though he couldn't help limping everywhere, he still felt as though many of his wounds had disappeared with the end of Walter's life. The air in the room assured him of his safety within its walls.

_Ah, but what of Eileen's safety?_

Though it pained him to leave such a quiet, reserved place, he did so for Eileen's sake. It was slow, but sure, and sooner rather than later he found himself outside and limping to his car. The air outside was fresh. Fresh—but not as comforting as his apartment. The radio in his car crackled to life with breaking news of the finding of a severely injured woman being rushed to St. Jerome's. Henry did not need any more clarification, and drove himself there, feeling his body slowly mend as he did so.

The doctors there urged him to stay overnight, and though he did not want to sleep in a bed that was not his own back at his apartment, he did so, and by the next day he was refreshed. At first they questioned his quick recovery, but they soon backed off. Perhaps they knew better than to question him.

Eileen was healthy too. She was there in the hospital bed, with barely even a scratch on her pretty face. The sunlight filtered in through the curtains to swath her in a sort of heavenly, motherly glow and she smiled as he handed her a bouquet of flowers. He smiled back. Strange how he no longer could feel the constant tug of awkward shyness at the back of his throat. Henry took that as a good sign.

"Thanks," Eileen said, wrinkling her nose cutely. After a short pause she added, "I guess I can go back to South Ashfield Heights now, huh?"

Henry nodded. Yes, that was possible, and she should come back. It was safe there now.

Mother would protect them both.


	34. Eileen's Death

**Eileen's Death**

Henry closed his eyes and dearly wished that if he could choose any moment in his life to become deaf, it would be this moment. Though he wished to only remember her sweet words to him and the beautiful harmony in her voice, the violent screeches of her scream tainted whatever rich memories he held of her before the moment of her death. Quiet sobs wracked his pathetic body as he waited for Walter to begin to choke him.

It was a curious thing. When Eileen had first been attacked and he believed her to be dead, Henry had found it hard to cry. He was, in all actuality, weighed down by sorrow when that happened, but for some reason or another he couldn't find the emotion within him to cry. Now though, it was as if something had changed deep within his gut and he couldn't stop sobbing. Why now? What was different between now and then?

The torturous sensation of her lips brushing his came back to him and he felt his heart sink to the ground. Yes, he had cared for her before rescuing her from the hospital bed, and yes he had dropped to his knees when he saw her beaten and bloody on her apartment floor, but as much as he thought those emotions were strong then it didn't compare to what he was going to experience as he dutifully led her through the winding Other Worlds.

After meeting her, after talking with her, after seeing her absolute worst and best, something had changed. After she let him rescue her, after she trusted him, and after judging him based on seeing his absolute worst and best, something buried from Henry's understanding had changed and now he was sobbing pathetically on the stone floor, waiting for his death to follow hers. A snap of the neck, and that's all it would take. Henry would even be able to say he might not have minded if it had happened.

But when the pole lowered from Henry's neck his eyes flew open. He had expected it to end right there, but the sudden flash of hope gripped him harder than the jaws of one of the dogs from the subway. Perhaps Walter wasn't expecting him to recover so quickly, and, to be honest, Henry wasn't expecting it either. Maybe the morphine had really kicked in. Maybe the utter devastation paved a path for him to do what he needed to do.

Eileen had died. She wouldn't want him to follow suit.

Henry grabbed the pole and tugged hard, yanking it from Walter's hands as he stood up. He swung the weapon in a wide arc as he turned around, driving Walter back. Though tears should've blinded him Henry could see clearly as he attacked again and again, regardless of whether or not he was actually hitting the serial killer.

Walter raised his gun, still wearing his maddening smile but his visage was starting to crack at the edges. Undeterred, Henry raised the pole high above his head and brought it down in a powerful cleave, smashing Walter's hand just as he pulled the trigger. A stinging pain ripped along the side of Henry's calf, but it was soon silenced by the morphine in his veins. He continued to attack Walter's arm until the gun slipped from his fingers. Henry kicked the gun away, glared at the monster of a man that had ruined his and so many other lives, and drove the sharp end of the pole into Walter's stomach.

Blood sprayed from his mouth and he staggered. Henry kept pushing until Walter was on his back. Stomping his foot on Walter's sternum before he could recover, Henry dug his heel into his chest as he drew Richard's revolver from his waistband. For the first time ever, Walter's face showed the true animal fear Henry had been feeling ever since the hole appeared in his bathroom. Henry relished in that as he seethed at him.

"Good-bye, Walter."

_Good-bye, Eileen_.

He squeezed the trigger until he couldn't recognize Walter's face anymore.

_I'm so sorry_.

–

When he woke up in his room the radio had been turned on. This was what he noticed first, even above the fact that his bedroom windows were open and crisp autumn air was flowing in. The newscaster on the radio had given him a false sense of hope—they had mentioned her, they had mentioned Eileen, that she had been alive when they found her.

But then she faded from the world, and Henry fell to his beaten knees.

Henry had driven himself to the hospital despite the blood and tears that had blinded him. He had almost collapsed as he entered the ER; they had come to his side and nursed him back to health. A cluster of news reporters and curious bystanders including the superintendent trickled in and out his hospital room. He didn't care, or truly remembered any of their faces. As soon as he was able to be released, he was gone.

He escaped, alone, far away from Silent Hill, far away from Ashfield, far away from room 302, far, far away from room 303 and the lingering tired smile on the woman he had come to love and lose all within the course of a day. He escaped from any semblance of recognition from anyone else, neighbor or poltergeist, ever again.

To this day no one seemed to notice the comings and goings of the ragged Henry Townshend, nor did they care even if they caught a glimpse of the tragedy etched on his forlorn face.

Henry preferred it that way.


	35. Escape

**Escape**

_I hope my luck changes before the party._

_I don't know what I did, but I must've done something wrong, and I...I'm scared, I'm really scared._

_I wonder what you see...if you still see me as the girl who lived next to you, if you see me as Eileen Galvin and not...20/21._

_Henry, thank you. I could've never have done for you what you've done for me._

_Nothing's okay—Henry, nothing's okay, but..._

A kiss.

The sweetness of her delicate, trembling hand within his. The hurt pride that rose to unbelievable determination. The darkness that clouded her mind that was sure to haunt her for eternity; her blunt confrontation of the darkness even though she knew she was destined to lose. The way she had curled away from him in fear, how he silently witnessed her unfold and trust him though he gave her no real reason to.

The idea that though he had cared for her before meeting her in the hospital, his cares were superfluous, superficial; back then it had nothing to do with her. All he was looking for was an anchor to reality and he wouldn't have cared what package it came in, as long as he could place his ideals in one place, one mortal body, and admire and yearn for it from afar. When she was attacked he didn't cry. But here now as she was walking towards her true death, Henry was _sobbing_.

There was something so much deeper here, now. Every time he tried to come back around from the beginning and play it out in his head it became even deeper—so deep that he soon gave up hope that he'd ever be able to understand.

He didn't dare to call it love before.

But when her life hung in the balance in front of him he wanted to scream that he was hopelessly in love with her—the _real_ her, not some stupid idealistic projection of his. He was stupidly in love with Eileen Galvin—so stupidly in love that he didn't expect nor did he wish for her to reciprocate his feelings. Despite the kiss she had given him, he wasn't expecting her love in return, and he was perfectly okay with that.

He just knew that if he didn't break free and save her life he'd never forgive himself.

_I want to get out of here but I don't remember what the real world is like anymore._

He just knew that if she didn't get to see the real world again he'd never forgive himself.

Walter's hold on him seemed to tighten and Henry gasped for breath, pawing at his neck and squirming feebly.

_Henry...you're the bravest man I know._

Stifling a cough and trying to be discreet, Henry reached down to his waistband and ever so gently eased Richard's revolver out and away. Thankful that Walter was too distracted in watching Eileen walk towards her death, Henry pointed the gun and pulled the trigger.

He had shot Walter in the leg. The suddenness of the sound and pain caused Walter to drop the pole from Henry's neck and stagger backwards. Gasping for air, Henry rose and turned around, pointing the gun at the madman threatening their lives.

Walter snarled and drew his own gun. Henry could see the rage in his eyes and ducked to the ground, rolling out of the way as gunshots tore through the space he was just standing in. Praying none of the bullets would hit Eileen, Henry scrambled to his knees as the barrel of Walter's gun followed him to where he was. Fear etched itself onto Henry's face and he squeezed the trigger of the revolver until it ran empty. Flinching and shutting his eyes tight, he whimpered in the silence that followed, expecting Walter to fire his gun again.

When nothing happened, Henry slowly opened his eyes and turned his head to see Walter standing in front of him. Five holes peppered his coat, and from them blood began to seep and flow. The expression on his face was confused, pained, and angry, but those emotions soon melted away as he stumbled back with a grunt and fell to the ground.

Henry got back up on his feet as blood pooled underneath the man that was once so terrifying and haunting. Reduced to a mortal husk, Walter Sullivan raised his arm in the air, and if Henry peered over he could see a wistful sort of childish hope in his eyes.

"Mom...?" Walter gurgled. His hand dropped to his side with a shaken groan and everything fell silent.

He was dead.

Before Henry could relax, the ground beneath him began to rumble and shake. Staggering on his weak feet, his heart began to pound. The creature wailed and withered, and with it the stone floor began to crack and fall. With Walter Sullivan no longer keeping his world alive, it was crumbling and shattering from the very core.

A shocked, scared cry brought focus to Henry's panic and his eyes shot over to the staircase. Eileen had collapsed at the edge of the pool of blood, mere steps away from the machine that was still spinning and whirring.

"_Eileen!_" he cried, scrambling over the uneven and undulating stone. He heard her scream again as he clambered over fallen debris. Boulders rained down from the ceiling and Henry ducked his head as if it would help protect him as he reached the staircase.

She had attempted to pull herself up and out of the pool. Her legs all the way up to her knees were stained red, and she was gripping one of the columns around the staircase frantically.

"Eileen!" Henry plucked his way through rocks and broken pieces of floor before he stumbled forward and grabbed her hand. She looked at him, an intense gaze of fear and finality. Henry gulped, and squeezed Eileen's hand as if that would reassure either of them. There was an odd sort of relaxation that fell over both of them as the Other World toppled apart. They were going to die, but now it was okay. Everything was okay.

It was done.

The world went black.

–

Lights passed over her head with a deadening sort of rhythm, one after the other. She was groggy and dazed, and it took all of her strength to merely count the lights that were passing by above her. Pain throbbed in the back of her mind, keeping itself at bay as she slowly regained consciousness. Odd blurred faces appeared and disappeared in front of her, and muffled voices shuffled around her as the lights occasionally changed their regular pattern.

Eileen gurgled quietly. Slowly the pain came back to her, starting in her toes and fingers and gradually moving to her head and heart. Then the memories came back to her, and everything came into focus as though she had just taken a shot of adrenaline.

The blurred faces turned out to be people she didn't recognize. They looked like doctors, but hell if she knew. Even if she _was_ in a hospital, there was no way she couldn't tell it wasn't _the _hospital, and if she was about to be sent back there again _without_ Henry—

Was Henry here?

Was Henry _here?_

_What had happened to him?_

More memories flooded back. Memories of screaming and crying like a child, memories of mercilessly beating him, memories of _leaving him_ for the call of Walter's ultimate fantasy, memories of walking towards her death as Henry was slowly choked in front of her.

Eileen screamed so loud her lungs threatened to burst, fighting against the men and women that attempted to strap her to the gurney she was on. Tears of fear rolled down her cheeks as she continued to scream protests and call for Henry to come to her side if he could hear her.

But he didn't hear her, and he didn't appear to be at her side.

One of the doctors forced a mask over her face and though she continued to strain and struggle, she soon fell back into an insecure darkness.

–

The wind caressed his exhausted cheeks, coaxing him to wake up. Henry groaned and weakly swatted at his face, expecting it to be a fly that had somehow managed to squeeze into his room despite the fact that every window was closed and sealed.

Henry opened his eyes when the wind touched his face again.

The window was open.

He lifted his head and stared at it in blank shock. The wheels began to churn in his head and his heart began to race—this time with a sense of hope and yearning. Moving too quickly for his injured body, Henry scrambled off the bed and to his feet. Limping, but fighting back the pain, he stumbled into the front room of his apartment and stared at his door.

The chains—even the bloody words—were gone.

Henry pressed himself against the door, too eager for his own good. Breathing heavily and expecting the worst, he turned the knob and eased the door open with no trouble. The hallway outside his door was the same gray hallway he had gotten used to seeing for the past two years. There wasn't even a trace of the 19 bloody handprints across from his peephole.

Leaving the door open in his scramble into the hallway, he grunted in pain as he hit the far wall. Sliding against it for support, he didn't even notice the smear of blood he left behind as he made his way down the hallway to the stairwell. He leaned against the railing as he skipped stairs to balance out his hurry and his pain. There was nothing that said he wasn't still trapped in the building, even though everything looked normal. None of the other tenants were out and about, not even Frank. Who's to say he wasn't stranded in limbo?

Failing to muffle a cry of pain as he hit the final landing, he ignored the fact that his small mailbox was overflowing with letters—bills, no doubt—as he approached the door to the outside world in a trance. Placing his hands and body against the door, he was about to open it before he paused.

What would he do, how would he feel if the door didn't open?

Steeling himself and furrowing his brow, he forced himself to believe he had broken free as he put all of his weight against the door and pushed.

Brilliant sunlight poured onto his face, greeting him with warmth and vitality he had long forgotten. Crisp autumn winds billowed leaves about him as he limped out into the parking lot in a daze. Birds fluttered in the dry branches above him, the sounds of the clacking wood and the fluttering of wings making more music to his ears than the birds' voices themselves. Clouds moved lazily above him in intricate shapes and designs that would never be created again.

This was it. This was freedom.

Henry Townshend was free.

He took in a deep breath—as deep as his broken body would allow—and exhaled slowly. Turning about until he could see his window, he breathed a sigh of wonder and triumph until his eyes wandered over to the room next to his.

"Eileen...," he muttered quietly. Mustering whatever speed he had left, he rushed back to his apartment to find his keys and then to his car, finding _that_ underneath a pile of dried leaves. Henry grunted with pain as he attempted to brush them all off before clambering inside. Once inside the radio crackled to life. The newscaster mentioned a severely injured woman being taken to St. Jerome's from the forest outside of Silent Hill. Panic steadily rose to his head and Henry suddenly became aware of the spots dancing in front of his vision, as well as all of the footprints circled in drops of blood he had made coming back and forth from the apartment and parking lot. The damn morphine was starting to wear off. He was getting dizzy. Gritting his teeth, Henry put the car in gear and drove as well as he could to the hospital.

Getting out of the car would've been easier if he had been drunk, Henry was pretty sure of that. Still, nothing seemed to matter. The newscaster had given no details about whether or not the woman—whom had remained _unidentified for her safety_ though Henry was _positive_ it was her—had survived or had...well, passed away from her injuries.

No. She _had_ to be alive. He had done _everything he could and more_ to save her—to save _just one person_ from that abhorrent hell. If she was dead...he couldn't bear the thought.

His vision narrowed to a tunnel, saving him from seeing all of the frightened looks he got as a bloody, wounded, dirty, crazed man stumbled through the automatic doors of the hospital. His limp had become a terrible lope, and his burned arm had become all but useless. Had he really been in this condition for so long, or was the morphine so powerful he had forgotten what it was like to have all this pain at once?

"Is—," he sputtered to the terrified woman at the front desk. It had been a while since he had talked to someone that hadn't been Eileen. Choking and coughing on blood, Henry continued, "Is Eileen Galvin here?"

"I-I don't know. Do you need medical attention, s-sir?"

Henry's brow furrowed, which made him look much more menacing than he was aware of as the blood surrounding his eyes made them stand out like angry stars in the night, "No. Eileen Galvin, _is she here?_ Please, I have to know!"

That's what he _meant_ to say, but the constant battering and bruises, the blood in his mouth, and the sheer exhaustion slurred all his words until they were nothing but a mucked up mess. The woman behind the desk looked at him in sheer terror and pressed a hidden button.

"We don't give out patient information. Who are you to her?"

_A next-door neighbor? A concerned citizen?_ None of those would work—especially if the hospital knew she had been attacked by a serial killer. Henry stuttered—but the stutter came out more like a throaty growl that had summoned up a glob of blood and saliva. He choked, coughing up the fluids straight onto her desk.

The combination of the growl and the bloody spit caused the woman to stand straight up.

"_Sir, _stand back! The hospital is on high alert and you _will_ be apprehended!" the woman commanded.

Henry's desperate frustration turned to anger and he opened his mouth to argue with the woman, his fists curling tightly on the desk.

The distant sound of a scream—real or hallucinated—from within the hospital interrupted him before he could speak and his head perked in the direction of the scream. If the woman wouldn't help him, then he would have to find her himself. He had done it before, he could do it again, whatever monsters would spring from the dark to stop him.

"_Sir, _where are you going? Stop!" the woman yelled as security appeared. One of the guards grabbed Henry's burned elbow. Screeching in pain, Henry wrenched his arm away and gave the guard an unforgiving blow. Turning, Henry took a step forward as if he was trying to run, but the overwhelming pain coupled with the sheer amount of blood on his shoes on the polished hospital floor stopped him as he slipped and collapsed on the ground. Wailing in agony, Henry writhed on the floor as the screaming disappeared. The guards wasted no time in ensuring Henry stayed on the ground, but they couldn't do much that Henry's body wasn't already doing to him without sending him into a blinding world of pain.

There were two patients in the conjoined waiting room—a mother and her daughter. The daughter's eyes were fixed on the front counter ever since the man had stumbled in, broken, hurt, and frustrated. She was morbidly curious as she watched the scene unfold before her, much to her mother's dismay. At one point it seemed as if the bloodied man had looked at her and her heart stopped in terror, expecting to see hate in his eyes.

When she saw sorrow and desperation instead she refused to tear her eyes off of him until a gurney had been rolled out and he was taken to an emergency room. A janitor soon followed to clean up the mess he had left. The girl kept quiet about it for the rest of the day. Secretly she hoped the man would be safe.

–

"You've got a broken coccyx, a cracked rib on _one_ side due to god knows what, and some broken ribs on the _other_ side from an apparent _gunshot_ wound that obviously never got any real medical attention. Your ligaments in your legs are screwed up—_sprained_ doesn't even _begin_ to describe what's wrong with them—and in your arms, you should thank your lucky stars that none of _those_ were dislocated! Oh, and then we have all the blood loss we had to treat you for, and the burn wounds on your palm and arm, and the apparent _animal bites_ everywhere else...This is the same caliber of the stories my grandfather used to tell about World War I! Tell me, what the _hell _happened to you?!"

Henry stared quietly as the doctor threw up his dismal x-rays. He was a man in his sixties, with a loud character and impeccable eye for injuries, it seemed. The doctor continued, pacing around the foot of the bed Henry was resting on. There were restraints put on the bed that had, for the past two days, been holding his wrists to the frame in case he tried to make another scene. Fortunately he didn't—not after plenty of good rest and painkillers while the doctors worked to help his body heal the unbelievable amount of injuries he had acquired. Though, while he didn't make a _violent_ scene, he still kept asking for Eileen Galvin and if she was alive and well despite the fact that every single time he was met with the curt, cold answer of _Patient information is classified._

"Your superintendent dropped by as the only one who would identify you—did you know you drove here without your license?—and he told me that you had locked yourself in your room for the past six days. Looking at _these_," the doctor smacked the x-rays with the pencil he was holding, "I say that's a load of _bullshit_. Sort of. What happened to you, kid?"

A hard lump formed in his throat and Henry dropped his gaze. A story formed in his head, close to the truth but not quite, and as he began to speak in his quiet, feeble voice hot tears began to leak from his eyes.

"I...There was a man in a coat,"

The doctor rested against the corner of his bed as he listened intently to Henry's story.

"He...broke in. Locked me in my room. And he...he made me see—I saw," Henry bit his lower lip as the tears trickled down his cheeks, "He _killed _people, in front of me. I couldn't—I tried to stop him but I couldn't—the subway, the woods, the orphanage,"

"Kid," the doctor interrupted before Henry became hysterical. His older eyes were soft though his words were tough, his voice matching his eyes as he continued, "Save it for the cops. They want to have a word with you anyways."

The doctor got up and sighed.

"Dr. Jacob?" a nurse poked his head in, "Can we talk quick?"

Dr. Jacob nodded and stepped out of the room, leaving Henry in silence. The faces of the people he witnessed die—Cynthia, Jasper, Andrew, and Richard—floated just beyond his vision as he wiped the tears from his cheeks. He figured that they would haunt him even when he wasn't thinking of them. Such was the curse of his failures. Such was the curse of being a spectator. Such was the apparent curse of the Receiver of Wisdom.

"Well kid," Dr. Jacob said as he re-entered the room, "You'll be happy to hear this. Eileen Galvin is alright."

Henry's dark thoughts were pushed away at the mention of her name and he sat up straighter in bed. The doctor pretended not to notice.

"Apparently she gave the nurse quite a scene when she had found out that you were asking for her well-being. That is—when she found out that we were withholding it from you. No hard feelings, kid. Hospital policy and all that—especially with...well, I'm sure you know very well what's running about the streets of Ashfield right now. She won't be released for a while—and neither will _you_, so _don't try—_but either way,"

Dr. Jacob gave Henry a light touch on the shoulder.

"She's lucky to be alive—and so are you."

–

Henry stood outside the door to her hospital room, a bouquet of flowers in his sweaty hand. He had not seen her since they were last in the Other World, and he wasn't well-informed of her condition. Was there any permanent damage to what she had suffered? Was she mentally stable enough to see him again, the living, breathing reminder of hell? The flowers shook in his hand.

Reality was such a surreal feeling to him. Days and nights passed by, birds sang in the open windows, people gossiped in the hallways and went about their work without incident. It was all so exuberantly normal that it made him feel dizzy to stand there in the hallway, just tucked away from all of the commotion. Both of them were being released today, being sent home with notes on remarkable recoveries.

Henry knew, though, that he wasn't going back "home", as it were. If he would never have to set foot in room 302 ever again, he'd be the happiest man alive. On top of that, there was nothing remarkable about their recovery. Even if it had happened faster than the doctors were expecting, nothing about it felt right. Henry still had a weighing pain in his chest that intensified whenever he let his thoughts drift to nightmares, and he suspected that was only the tip of the iceberg to a multitude of unfathomable paranoia, problems, and trauma that he was going to shakily learn the existence of in the days to come.

But he couldn't think about that now. Sunlight filtered in through the curtains as Henry gripped the bouquet of flowers. Uneasily he mimed giving them to her in the hallway.

_Here, I got you some flowers_, he'd say as he would hand them to her. _Oh, and a smile. Curl up the side of your lips. She's so used to seeing you dreary that it'd be a nice gesture on top of the bouquet._

_There._

_Easy._

A nurse passed by him, flipping through a clipboard. Henry recoiled immediately as his face reddened, the flowers going back down to his sides as if he was trying to hide them. Waiting until the heat left his face, he crept into her room, fully aware that he was trembling.

Eileen looked tranquil. She was gazing out of the window at the sunny autumn day. Henry had entered so quietly that she didn't seem to notice him. He attempted to clear his throat, but when it came out more as a croak he grimaced. She jumped, so slight he almost, _almost_ didn't notice, and turned to him.

She was wearing new clothes, a comfortable green shirt that had a long torso and sleeves that came to her elbows along with denim capris, things her family must have brought in for her. Henry's wardrobe was not much different other than the fact it wasn't stained with blood, pocked with holes, burned to a crisp, or shredded. The cement cast on her arm was replaced with a much more comfortable one, smaller, lighter, and allowed all of her fingers freedom. Any other sign of injury was hard to see, other than two small pieces of tape keeping a scab closed on her brow.

Her face was still, taking in the details of the man standing in front of her. It had been so long since she had seen him clean and fresh that she almost didn't recognize him for a moment. But she couldn't mistake his slouched, unsure shoulders and his perpetually stubbled face for anyone else, and her expression warmed to a genuine smile.

Their silence said more than words ever could. Neither one seemed eager to break it, and both were entranced with the presence of the other. They were alive. Not well. But they were alive.

And in that moment, that was all that mattered.

Henry lifted the bouquet up and handed it to her, wordlessly. Her smile widened as she took it in both hands. Henry withdrew his hand rather quickly, aware of the sweat and aware that not only had he not said anything but he had failed to smile as well.

"Thanks," she said with a small laugh. Eileen only briefly smelled the tip of the petals before looking back up at him.

_Why are you looking at me?_ Henry shifted on his feet and forced himself to smile. Sure, it wasn't hard to do if he didn't think about it, but _he was thinking about it._

"_Aww_," she commented, wrinkling her nose cutely as she again laughed quietly.

_Look at the flowers, don't look at me_.

"Guess I'll have to find a new place to live, huh?" Eileen said after her laughter ended, her voice low and serious though her lips were still pulled (perhaps forcibly) into a smile. Henry nodded in agreement, happy that she was able to find it in herself to laugh even if she didn't really feel like it.

The longer she gazed at him the smaller her smile became, and the small fear that was dwelling in his chest began to bloom. Soon her gaze dropped down to the flowers in the bouquet and he could see her lips tremble as her pale face became blotchy and red, accenting the faint freckles on her nose. Eileen's eyes shone in the sunlight, and then the tears began to fall.

Henry hesitated for a moment, but it did not take long to get over it and seat himself beside her on the bed. Eileen, still holding the flowers in one hand, threw his arms around him and held him tightly, sobbing into the space between his collarbone and neck. He let her cry, wrapping an arm around her waist to hold her steady as she did. Tears leaked from his eyes, and he soon buried his face in her hair, warmed by the sunshine from the open window.

Both of them were vaguely aware of the various curious and critical heads poking in and out of the room. Eileen was, after all, known at this time to be a survivor of a murder attempt, and though Henry was gradually gaining reputation of being in a similar boat many of the nurses and guards that patrolled the hallways were suspicious of any abnormal noise from Eileen's room. The police were still on alert for the "copycat" behind Walter Sullivan round three, and were taking no chances.

One such part of their alertness directed both Henry and Eileen to the hotel conjoined with the hospital. They had been assigned separate rooms at first, but Eileen had requested only one—with two beds—for the both of them. She did not explain why to the receptionist, but Henry knew it was because she had felt much safer with him than with or without anyone else. He could say the same for her; her presence was such a comfort to him, to know she was there and all right and breathing quietly brought him such peace of mind he felt as though she wrapped him in warmth.

Eileen had waited until Henry had chosen his bed before taking the other, quietly setting a duffel bag her parents had brought her in the hospital down at the foot of the bed.

She turned to him then, pulling him into a sudden and unexpected hug. Her shoulders shook like dry branches in a cold wind, but before he could ask what was wrong she lifted her head and kissed him, once, twice, many times. Henry froze, but soon melted in her arms and placed his gentle hands on her back.

"Oh god," she whispered into his chest, shuddering with each breath, "Oh my god...it's over. It's finally over."

Henry gently pressed the bridge of his nose against the edge of her brow and kissed her cheek.

It was over.

Trauma and nightmares would continue to haunt them for the rest of their life. Nothing would ever be the same about them ever again, and no one would ever believe the truth.

But it was finally over.

And that was the single greatest emotion he had ever held in his heart as he laid enveloped in her loving arms, the moon shining on their scarred, warm skin.


End file.
